


Tom

by Minx_DeLovely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25933369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minx_DeLovely/pseuds/Minx_DeLovely
Summary: Dinner with his family had been the final straw. She’d kept her mouth shut after he said it, but as soon as they got to the cab to go home, she let her frustrations out.“So, you think I’m smart enough to be a real doctor?” Molly asked, tartly.He smiled at her happily as he buckled his seatbelt, oblivious to the sour moue on her face.“Of course I do, darling.” He patted the top of her hand. “You’ll make it someday.”Molly was pretty sure her expression could be described as agog. Her  eyes were wide and disbelief sounded plain in her voice. “Tom, I am a real doctor.”“Oh, I know, but someday you’ll be allowed to treat patients who are still alive.”“What?” Her voice reverberated in the small space. The driver started in her seat.Tom recoiled. All six feet of him cowered on his side of the back seat. “Molly? You don’t yell.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 106
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

Even before John’s wedding, Molly had started to feel a little uncomfortable about Tom.  
She told herself there was no reason to—after all, he wasn’t a sociopath bent on using her for some demented parlor game, and he wasn’t a sociopath who could be breathtakingly cruel to her in one moment while being devastatingly kind the next. He wasn’t a sociopath at all—she’d made sure to test his empathic abilities by subtly feeding him psychological test questions over dinner and had carefully observed his behavior with their dog.  
He didn’t have a secret wife, or a gambling habit or a penchant for domestic abuse—characteristics shared by three of the last men she’d had the misfortune to date.  
She knew Tom was exactly as on the surface as he appeared because before she agreed to sleep with him, she had asked Mycroft Holmes to look into it for her—calling in a little favor for what she’d done to help his brother.  
Tom was an accountant, aged 27, never married and eager to settle down. His family lived in Sussex, his mother was not an actress pretending, like Jim’s had been. Tom was real and he loved her.  
Molly wished that was enough.  
Dinner with his family had been the final straw. She’d kept her mouth shut after he said it, but as soon as they got to the cab to go home, she let her frustrations out.  
“So, you think I’m smart enough to be a real doctor?” Molly asked, tartly.  
He smiled at her happily as he buckled his seatbelt, oblivious to the sour moue on her face.  
“Of course I do, darling.” He patted the top of her hand. “You’ll make it someday.”  
Molly was pretty sure her expression could be described as agog. Her eyes were wide and disbelief sounded plain in her voice. “Tom, I am a real doctor.”  
“Oh, I know, but someday you’ll be allowed to treat patients who are still alive.”  
“What?” Her voice reverberated in the small space. The driver started in her seat.  
Tom recoiled. All six feet of him cowered on his side of the back seat. “Molly? You don’t yell.”  
“I specialized in forensic pathology.” She hissed, her fingers turning white as they dug into her knees. “I took additional courses to become the type of doctor I am. This was my choice—my preference. How could you possibly think it wasn’t?”  
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know how any of that works. I just thought it would be nice if you could get away from all that crime and death. Don’t you want to, I dunno, treat little kids with broken arms or something?”  
“I am flabbergasted.”  
“Well, you must admit, the morgue is rather morbid, isn’t it?” He scrunched up his shoulders in a shrug.  
“I should have checked lead levels in his blood,” she muttered under her breath.  
“What was that, dear?”  
Molly’s began twisting her ring off. Her finger had swelled, and it hurt, but she couldn’t stand this farce one moment longer. He watched her, his smile frozen in place as the cheer drained from his eyes.  
“Mols, what are you doing?”  
She pressed the small diamond into the palm of his hand.  
“I’m sorry Tom, I can’t marry you.”  
His mouth gaped. “But, we picked Boodle’s Fool for the dessert, and we’ve nearly settled on a hall. My mother’s started making the dress. Why would you change your mind now after all that was decided?”  
“Because you never really got to know me, and I sort of let you. I wanted to be the girl that you believed me to be, but I’m not. This can’t work.” She looked down at her own hands, shame-faced. “I’ll pay your mother for the fabric and her time, too.”  
“Gemma was right about you,” he said.  
Gemma was his cute, chubby friend from work that he texted all hours of the night and day. He’d thought himself too good for the girl, since his family owned a country estate they couldn’t afford to keep up. Molly thought of saying something cutting about all that, but realized she was the one breaking his heart. It seemed poor form to be petty.  
“Can you just drop me by my flat then?”  
“Oh ho, your flat.” He threw his head back. “Now I understand why you wouldn’t give it up. I know you think you’re special because you have a famous friend and a weird job, but you’re still eight years older than me. I’m keeping Buster, by the way.”  
Tears sprang up in her eyes at the thought of saying goodbye to Buster. They’d got him at a shelter and the poor, shaggy old boy only had one eye. When she’d walked into the room full of cages, his tail had started wagging and he almost seemed to smile at her. Buster had been more Tom’s dog than hers, but he was still the thing that she loved most about their relationship. Molly sniffled.  
Tom noticed her tears. “Oh, that won’t work on me. I know your sort.”  
Her face crumpled.   
She was glad he didn’t know her. The bit about the dog would be terribly galling, even under the best circumstances. Molly continued to cry for being so stupid as to think Tom could have ever made her happy and for leading him on.  
At least Meena would be happy about the breakup. When Molly introduced Tom to her best friend, Meena dragged Molly to the bar bathroom for some frank talk. Meena called Tom a sex idiot and pointed out that if he’d been wearing a ski jacket instead of a long, black coat, Molly wouldn’t have said two words to him.  
“There’s no way you could be happy with a bloke as incurious as that one. He’s contemptuous of knowledge and you practically fetishize it. Dump him, before you waste one more second.”  
Molly thought she was in love, and consequently, she told Meena she was wrong. That was the first argument they ever got into. Molly had stormed out of the bar and refused to talk to Meena for a week. The fight finally ended when Meena sent a dozen tulips to Barts with a note of apology.   
As she and Tom sat in the cab, and he continued to fuffer on about her many failings as a girlfriend, Molly slid her phone out of her purse. With a few taps she’d ordered a dozen saffron and blood colored Calla lilies to be sent to Meena’s house. The card read, “I’ll never doubt you again. Love-Molly.” Meena would know what it meant.  
Rain began to pelt the cab, and the driver turned on the windshield wipers. The slap and drag of the wipers punctuated Tom’s litany of complaints.  
“You always smell like chemicals until you shower and then you smell like citrus, which is actually maybe nice. Like a lemon pie, but it’s not the point. Maybe I don’t like lemon pie. I mean, I do, but you could ask before you bought it. Maybe I shouldn’t like my fiancee to smell like a dessert--”  
Molly leaned forward and tapped the driver on her shoulder.  
“You can just drop me here, miss.” She forced a smile onto her face.  
“Molly, we won’t be at your flat for ages.”  
“I want to get out of this car now. Please stop.”  
“Of course,” the driver said as she pulled over. Molly went into her purse to pay. He grabbed her shoulder.  
“We ought to split it, shouldn’t we, since mine’s only a few blocks on. You can get out your little calculator that you keep--”  
“My phone?”  
“Really, I thought it was a separate, little...no?” He shook his head, his lips drawn up into a circle.  
“Tom, I don’t care. I just want to go.”  
Molly handed the cabbie the full fare and hopped onto the sidewalk. In two seconds of blinding rain, her coat was soaked through. Tom looked pitiful illuminated in the interior light.   
“But Molls, what about my things. Shouldn’t I come up?” He gestured toward her flat.  
“I’ll mail it to you.” She folded her arms.  
“What about your books and your clothes?”  
“You can do the same.” She tried to keep her voice level, but mostly she wanted to shout at him.  
“But your treadmill, Molls?”  
“We’ll sort it in the morning.” She ran down the street without another backward glance.   
The cab followed her at a short distance for the duration of her walk, an attempt on Tom’s part at chivalry, no doubt. By the time Molly hopped up her steps, her shoes were completely saturated and the glue of the sole had begun to give way. Her hands shook as she dug through her purse again. She stabbed the chattering keys into her lock.   
Tomorrow she’d adopt a cat and tell her mother that the engagement was off, but in the early minutes of Sunday morning she was wrung out and drenched and didn’t want to deal with any of that--she just wanted to go to sleep. Molly got the door open and stepped inside her dimly lit rooms. Immediately, she kicked off her squishy, melting shoes and binned them on her way past the kitchen. Carefully, she hung her damp coat on the back of a chair to dry. Her hair dripped a cold trickle down between her shoulder bades.  
She went through her bedroom in her wet stockings to get to her bathroom. As soon as she flicked on the light, she saw the men’s clothing piled carelessly in front of her pedestal sink, dappled with bright, red blood.   
Molly stifled a scream. The black dress slacks were nondescript as was the white shirt, but she noted how expensive they looked. They weren’t Tom’s and there were only two men she knew who dressed that well. One of them was supposed to be dead, but then again, so was the other, and she knew how that went.  
Her heart pounded as she opened the linen closet door and slid her hand under the pastel towels. She grasped the cold, metal pipe that she kept there for protection, just in case she had a break in. With the pipe in her hand, Molly deliberated. She ducked down and grabbed an aerosol can from under the sink in case she found the use of lethal force too daunting. Afterall, it went against her Hippocrattic Oath, which she took very seriously--because she was a real doctor.   
Fortified with a surge of anger, she tiptoed out of the bathroom. Molly scanned the bedroom. Her eyes alighted on the man lying in her bed, covered to his chin in blankets. His body spanned the entire length of her mattress. His dark curls were spread out on her pillow and his pale skin had a kind of halo, like he was generating his own moonlight.   
Sherlock.   
Of course.  
It felt surreal even though she’d stumbled upon him like that a few times before. It always felt like the first time. Molly moved closer to get a better look at his face, forgetting the weapons in her hands. In the wan light seeping from the bathroom, he looked unhurt, but she needed to examine him thoroughly. His breathing seemed even, but the blood had her worried.   
“Sherlock, wake up,” she said, softly.  
His eyes flicked open.  
“Are you finally going to beat me into submission or do you want to polish me to death?”  
“Right.” She set the can and the pipe on her bedside table, then she clicked on her lamp. He grimaced up at her.   
“Sit up now, I need to have a look at you,” Molly said.  
“No need to Molly-Coddle,” he grumbled as he swung into a sitting position.  
“Was that a pun?”  
“One of John’s.” He gave her a shy smile.  
She had to stop her heart stuttering at the sight of him. His bare chest had bruises coming up along the ribs and around the shoulder. Miraculously, there were no cuts on his face, just a scrape on the cheekbone.  
“You saw the clothes in the bathroom.” His voice was laced with disappointment. “The majority of that blood belongs to my attackers.”  
She pushed the bedclothes down so she could get a better look at his injuries. The bruises scattered across his chest were ghastly, especially the blue and purple on his side. Gently, she ran her fingers across his skin looking for broken bones or swollen organs.  
His slim clavicle was intact, but when she pressed along his ribs, he winced.  
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I think it’s a bruise, not a break.”  
“The men who did this to me are in police custody, in case you were worried. I made sure I wasn’t followed. I stopped three other places before I came into your flat. I was very careful of you, Molly Hooper.”  
“Of course you were,” she said, absently. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”  
She knelt between his legs, her palms skating across his upper thighs. No breaks, but some grim bruises.   
“You’ve been crying, haven’t you,” he asked.  
“Mmm.” She barely nodded.  
He began audibly sniffing her hair.  
“You smell faintly of meat pie and cherry pipe tobacco,” He stated. “You’re wearing a stodgy suit that would be appropriate for church or an obligatory dinner with your future in-laws. Your finger is swollen, red and no longer bears your engagement ring and you’re soaked to the bone which tells me you were desperate to get out of the cab and away from Tom. You’ve finally broken off the engagement?”   
She stood and retrieved a pen light from her bedside table. Molly shined it in his eyes. He squinted against the beam of light, but his pupils reacted normally.  
“I don’t have a concussion.” He swatted at the irritation, missing her by a yard.  
“No, you don’t, but I had to check.” She put the pen light back, then took his long fingers in her own small hands.   
It occurred to her that this scene could not have been more intimate. He wore nothing but underwear, he had been asleep in her bed, they were touching and even smelling one another--yet the interaction could not have been more clinical. He deduced her. She diagnosed him. There they were, exploring one another like two treasured objects in search of a flaw. Perhaps deducting showed he cared for her, just as her careful medical examination was her way of caring for him. Molly smiled sadly at him.  
“I’m sure you saw it coming. You see everything, don’t you?”  
He pursed his lips nervously and glanced down, but he didn’t answer.   
Molly continued to talk.   
“I kept telling myself he meant icicle when he said meat knife--that he just got flustered talking to the great Sherlock Holmes. It was funny, until it wasn’t.” She smoothed her fingertips along his delicate phalanges, down to the Scaphoid. Lunate. Triquetrum.Trapezoid. Trapezium.Capitate.Hamate. Pisiform. All the bones in his wrist felt safe and whole.  
He covered her searching hand with his own.  
“Molly.”  
“I feel so stupid, about Tom, I mean.”  
“You’re not stupid--you’re kind. That isn’t a weakness, regardless of what I’ve said to you in the past.”  
“Sherlock--”  
“You’re complex and ambitious. He was ordinary and simple and safe. There are a million Toms. There is one Molly Hooper.” He squeezed her hand, but did not let it go.  
“You’re coming dangerously close to saying he’s common.”  
Sherlock scoffed. “Common? Never. He’s come from generations of inbred wealth. You’ll note the library where he went to University bears his family name. That’s not chance. It’s the only reason he was able to graduate at all.”  
“You researched him? You never said any of that when I talked about him. Not like with my other boyfriends.”  
“I wanted you to be happy, and barring that, I knew you’d have the good sense to get there on your own. I’ve been trying to be more polite to you.”  
She nearly made a comment about his lack of success in that regard, but she considered his words. After Moriarty had used her, Sherlock had been softer with her--not quite kind but more cautious. Lately, he’d become so warm to her, so kind, in between moments of completely ignoring her. She smiled and his expression echoed hers.  
“You should take your clothes off--you’re soaked to the skin,” he said.  
She giggled, pulling her hand from his to cover her mouth. “When you take the couch, I’ll strip off.”  
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m injured and my feet practically hang off the arms.”  
“Are you suggesting I take off my clothes and get in bed with you?”  
“I wasn’t, but honestly, you take up almost no room and you don’t snore. I’m in no shape to challenge your honor, anyway--if that was a worry.”  
She threw her head back and laughed--a sound that began to veer dangerously close to sobbing. His face fell.  
“Was that funny?”  
“Well I had hoped you might want to challenge it, just a little.”  
He smirked. “I might.” The smirk vanished, replaced with a contrite look. “You need a friend right now, I think. This is more John’s strong suit, but you’ll have to muddle through with me. Now come and get warm.” He snapped off the bedroom light. She stood there in the dark, watching him settle for a few beats too long. Then she turned away. She scooped her pajamas out of her drawer.  
She went into the bathroom and changed out of her damp things. Molly squeezed her hair out with a towel. Perhaps she would be destroying evidence in the morning, but at that moment she only had the energy to put her clothes in the hamper along with his. She shut off the light, and felt her way to the bed. Molly laid down beside Sherlock, careful not to lean on his bruised ribs. She curled into his side and he, without prodding or complaint, put his arm around her waist.  
For years she had wanted exactly this, but instead of feeling a jumble of nerves and excitement, Molly felt soothed. Before long, she was asleep.  
***  
Molly woke up with a weight around her waist and a warm body pressed against her back. Immediately she knew it wasn’t Tom--he smelled different and the person she was pressed against was bigger, more solid.   
For a second she thought she was having that dream again, the one where Sherlock broke into her flat and crawled into bed with her. That one could end in a variety of ways, depending on how her day went. Sometimes they had sex--the most pleasant iteration of her dream. Other times he bled out in her arms while she tried desperately to save him. This was the nightmare. Once he began barking out a recipe for rice pudding in Latin. It had been surprisingly tense as she attempted to gather all the ingredients.   
This time, he continued to breathe near her ear, and then he clutched her stomach. He mumbled under his breath, something intelligible that might have been code or gibberish. Molly remembered what had happened the night before and realized it wasn’t a dream at all. She tried to wiggle out from under his arm without waking him, but he pulled her tight against him.  
“Where are you going, you warm, little thing?” he muttered against her hair.  
“Um?” She didn’t want to say the toilet, even though that’s really where she needed to go. “It’s just Molly.”  
“You’re doubting my deductive powers?” he mumbled and turned over, letting her go.   
She just wanted to go to the toilet, she hadn’t meant to cast aspersions on his professional capacities. Molly slid out of the bed and went to her bathroom. She got dressed without disturbing him further and then put his bloody clothes in a chemical soak in her washing machine. They’d concocted the formula together years ago. It got out bloodstains and destroyed other DNA evidence without damaging fabric. Briefly, she thought of patenting it, but realized the product would make her job much more difficult.  
After that obstruction of justice was accomplished, she set herself to the task of gathering up Tom’s things. He hadn’t left much at her place--a few changes of clothes, a phone charger and some bath products. They’d mostly stayed at his place, for Buster. Thinking on Buster made her get a little teary.  
She stole back into her own bedroom like a criminal to gather up Tom’s clothes and take his shower gel out of her bathroom. Sherlock didn’t stir as she padded around the room, but she could feel his eyes on her. Since he had nothing clean to wear, she set out a grey t shirt of Tom’s and a pair of his flannel pajama bottoms in case he woke up before his clothes were clean. She tiptoed out of the room.  
With all of Tom’s belongings in a cardboard box, and Sherlock’s things sloshing about in her washer, Molly began to wonder what to do next. Obviously, it was time to call her mum and break the bad news. Mum would be so disappointed; she thought Tom was sweet. He was, of course. That didn’t mean she ever wanted to speak to him again.  
Dear god, she was a very bad person.   
***  
Sherlock surreptitiously watched her moving about her bedroom. Molly was so quick and thorough and so considerate of him, she barely made a noise, but each step had twinged his nerves. Watching her made him unaccountably angry. Then he realized he wanted to grab her and pull her back under the pile of blankets with him.   
That was new.   
After she left, he hunkered down, the pillow over his head. Molly made him comfortable-not just her presence in his arms but the mere fact of her. He was happier knowing she existed. He wished it didn’t feel like such a failing.  
He finally crawled out of her bed at 1:30 in the afternoon. The bruises he’d been so cavalier about the night before were making him creaky and miserable. If it weren’t for his date with Janine, he wouldn’t have bothered to get up at all. Janine, who he wished wasn’t a person but a skeleton key or an eight-digit code because using her felt…something. He felt something not very good about it, and he wasn’t keen on feelings, which somehow, ironically, made those feelings worse. It’s not that he liked her, but rather, he had nothing against the woman. He could make her laugh, which was something he enjoyed and when she was in the flat, it became less obvious John was not. She was a presence that could be charmed, a smiling piece of furniture. He knew how horrid that sounded, but if he didn’t say it out loud, no one would be the wiser.  
That lack of color, that sense of blending in to a place was how he’d originally felt about Molly. Slowly she’d emerged from the grey background of Barts to be a full-color, living breathing human being, one he’d come to like very much. When he was with her, he didn’t think of how John was missing, the way he did with everyone else.  
She’d had an unhappy time the day before, and he knew he should have felt ashamed about how glad he was for her busted-up love affair, but he couldn’t muster up the manners.  
He didn’t want to renounce the comfort of stumbling into her rooms at all hours of the day or night for shelter, food, medical care and, at last, the occasional cuddle.  
Married people did not care for that type of chaos; that’s why they got married in the first place, to steal away from the madness of the world with the only other person who could help them make sense of things. Married people did not like their spouses to snuggle with strange, damaged men.  
A partner in a wedding pact could not plunge headlong into pursuits as dangerous as his own. When he was on a case, his body became a mere afterthought. He couldn’t eat and rarely slept while working. Sometimes he fell off the wagon and would start using again when he needed to heighten his thoughts. Sometimes he’d vanish into another persona and disappear for weeks. He couldn’t afford to have someone depend on his body for financial and emotional well-being. Thinking about the happiness of another person at a dangerous moment would make him hesitate and weaken his resolve.   
Death was his true companion. Not only did it sound incredibly intimidating, it was just a practical fact.  
If he were to change, if he decided to compromise everything, abandon his gifts at the door of a cozy home, and let love dull his sharp edges, that still didn’t guarantee anything. He could still slip in the bath, or neglect his cholesterol levels or get hit by a chunk of space rock re-entering the atmosphere. Worse yet, the same could happen to his co-conspirator in this comfort scheme. He could give up everything only to lose it again.  
Inexplicably, he started to cough, which made his lungs ache. Molly came running into the room as though he’d called her. That was another thing he’d have to give up if she were to marry someone else. He was her only living patient and having all of her attention was a luxury he found very, very dear.  
Molly got him a glass of water that she made him drink. She checked his hands for blood and saw they were clean but trembling.  
“What’s wrong? Bad dream?” she asked.  
He wanted to snap that he didn’t dream, but that was not only a lie, but a scientific inaccuracy. He dreamed of her often, and always like this—coming to help him or save him in the last moment. Always, Molly stopped him from falling, caught him in the silk of her voice and explained him to a calm landing. Dreams didn’t make sense, but in them her words could buoy him up. It was always Molly when he was prone and falling. Always Molly coming to set him right.  
He put his arms around her and let his head sink to the curve of her neck. They didn’t hug like that, or they hadn’t until then. She didn’t stop him. Instead she held him, being wary of his injuries.   
“Are you hurting? Can I give you something?” she pleaded.  
Nothing she had would be strong enough—he’d rifled through her medicine chest before she got home. Still, it would make her feel better to hand him a pill. He was about to tell her that a few pills would help, but instead he blurted out: “Stay here.”  
“Of course.”  
She smoothed her hands over his bare back. He clutched at her like she was the last of his reason.   
If they kept on like that he would be expected to kiss her.   
He hadn’t kissed anyone since Irene. He’d figured out what worked for him before he met The Woman, but his reaction to her had been enlightening anyway. Since then, kissing hadn’t played into things at all.  
Molly didn’t know that, though. She cupped his face and he thought she’d sink down to meet him, and then there would be an awkward moment to wonder if he should kiss her back. It would be easier to extricate himself before their lips met, because rejecting a woman after kissing her made things ten times worse. He knew from personal experience.   
Then Molly bent to him, and kissed his cheek.   
“I should put some alcohol on that scratch. It will only be a moment.” She withdrew from him to fetch the disinfectant from her bathroom. Sherlock felt odd about missing what he assumed would be an inevitable conclusion. Afterall, Molly had wanted him and he’d pretended not to notice before he pretended it didn’t matter. Now what stage had it gotten to? Was he pretending he didn’t want her?  
A loud clatter of footsteps coming from the living room shook him out of his reverie. Molly spun around, stopping midway to the bathroom. Their eyes met.  
“Were you expecting anyone?”  
She shook her head and worry creased her mouth. He reached for the lead pipe beside the bed, when the interloper shouted: “Molls! Molls! Where are you?”  
“It’s Tom,” Molly whispered, relief and disappointment sweeping over her at once. She went over to a neat pile of clothes sitting on her dresser, picked them up and threw the bundle to Sherlock. “Put these on.”  
Molly went out of the bedroom and closed the door behind her. He could hear their muffled conversation as he got dressed.  
“Why didn’t you call, Tom?”  
“You told me not to. I was just doing what you said. I brought your pack of hair elastics and those organic apples you bought.”  
“You could’ve kept those.”  
“They made me sad to look at. It was like eating pure sadness.”  
“You can’t just barge in here--”  
“Well you said we could be friends--”  
“I don’t think I did say--”  
“No, you did, and your friend Sherlock comes in here without keys or calling first.”  
“He does that because he’s fighting criminals on behalf of our government, not because he’s incapable of understanding basic rules of society...okay, to be fair, he also doesn’t understand those.” Her tone softened, he could almost feel her taking the blame through the thin wall. “I should have been more up front with you. I should have told you it pains me to see you.”  
Sherlock nearly fell putting on the pajama bottoms.  
“Well, I was wondering if I could have that necklace back I gave you. Gemma’s always fancied it, and I thought I could give it to her for a birthday present.”  
“I don’t have it any more.” She sounded bitter. Good. “The metal gave me a rash and I ended up giving it up for your mother’s jumble sale,” Molly said.  
“Right. I do remember that now. I guess electroplating isn’t what it used to be.”  
“Tom, your things are here. Take them and go. I can be by the flat next Tuesday. I’m not scheduled and you’ll be working. Raj and Meena will help me clear things out.”  
“That’s all then? You don’t want to have make-up sex one last time? I brought that pinapple-flavored--”  
“No!” She shouted.   
Sherlock didn’t know if he ought to go out of the room and interrupt the scene playing out. Tom was a fool, and he was certainly the type to push. Sherlock stood poised on Molly’s pink and green braided rug, thinking, when Tom made the decision for him by opening the bedroom door. Tom held Molly by the arm, trying to pull her into her room. “Molls, I don’t think you’re really serious about this. if we--”  
Tom turned and saw Sherlock..   
“Hello Tom.” Sherlock made sure to drop his voice an octave.   
“Hello.” Tom frowned, then he cocked his head. “You know something? I have those exact same pajamas.”   
“What a coincidence.”  
Molly’s pained smile winched halfway up her face; she looked the definition of abject humiliation. Sherlock couldn’t help but grin.   
“Tom, Molly has been helping me with some matters of state. Unfortunately, you don’t have the clearances, so if you don’t leave I may be forced to kill you.” Sherlock steepled his fingers and tilted his head down. If he could’ve underlit his face with a flashlight, he would have.   
Luckily, theatrical lighting wasn’t necessary.  
Tom pulled his lower lip down, showing his bottom teeth. “Yeesh, well then, I’ll be off. Molls, tell me when you want to come by for the rest of your stuff.”  
“I thought I told you, I’ll come by Tuesday while you’re at work--”  
“Well we can talk about it. I mean, I’d like to be there when you come in, not that you would take anything that wasn’t yours, but I dunno--my mum said--”  
“Your mum?” Molly looked stricken.  
“She just doesn’t want me to be taken advantage of, you know?”  
As they’d talked, Sherlock had been herding Tom toward the exit. He also made sure to grab the box of sundries and shove it into Tom’s hands at the last moment, so he couldn’t claim he’d forgotten anything.   
“Oh Tom--I’ll need your key,” Molly said, just as Tom tripped the threshold.   
“I don’t have it, I’m sorry Molls.”  
“Then how did you get in here?” she asked.  
“Oh. Right.” Tom dug into his pocket, precariously tipping the box in his one arm. Sherlock caught it easily before it upended. “Thanks mate,” Tom said.  
“Any time.”  
Tom handed Molly the keyring, and she worked the pertinent ones off. Then she handed them back. Sherlock practically dumped the box back into Tom’s arms. He started to close the door when Tom piped up, “When do you want to come by to pick up your things, Molls?”  
“She’ll text you the deets,” Sherlock said, his voice full of cheerful sadism. Then he slammed the door. Molly set the lock.  
“We’ll change those today--he no doubt made copies.”  
“I don’t know. That sounds a little bit clever,” Molly said.  
Sherlock nearly said that Moriarty seemed harmless and sweet when he first met Molly, but he thought better of mentioning it--Molly could make the deduction herself.   
“Indulge me.”  
She gave him a short smile, and nodded.  
“I have to go. Appointment I shouldn’t miss,” he said.  
“Your clothes?”  
“I’m sure I’ll need to stay here again-keep them in the back of your closet so I’ll have something to wear besides Tom’s castoffs.”  
His words made her mouth fall into a flat line, and her eyes dulled. Then she burst into tears--loud, upsetting tears. He froze in the spot and looked anywhere but at her face.  
“Why are you doing that? Molly?”  
She turned her back to him. With her head bent down and her shoulders closed in, she looked even smaller. Tentatively, he patted her arm with the flat of his palm. This touch had no impact on her tears.  
“Should I--do you?” he asked.  
She turned around, her nose running pathetically and her eyes scrunched.   
“What is it?” she asked.  
Sherlock pulled her into his arms and let her quiver there. He didn’t ask her why she was crying, but he thought it might have been about his choice of words. That usually did the trick. He’d hurt her before, when he thought he was being clever and funny. John had pointed out and he really tried to remember--it wasn’t so good to talk about a woman’s mouth or her breasts as often as he did Molly’s. This wasn’t friendly or humorous and yet whenever he was near her he thought about her mouth and her breasts and stupid comments about those parts of her body spilled out. He hadn’t done that this time--he wasn’t sure which part offended. It didn’t matter, because he was certain he’d tipped off this disaster. She clutched Tom’s t shirt, leaving wet face prints on the heather grey.   
“Don’t hurt yourself, please. It’s the most horrible thing when you’re in pain and I can’t help you,” she said.  
He hadn’t expected that--he’d thought the contact was penance for something he did to her, not what he planned on doing to himself. Even though he’d made no promises to her, he’d still managed to make her happiness depend on his well-being. He wanted to flee from her apartment, to push her away, but in that moment he let her hang on. She tired herself out crying against him, until her body sagged.  
“You have to go,” Molly withdrew from him. “Would you like something to eat before? I could make you a ham sandwich or you could take that bag of apples.”  
He smiled at her. “I will take the apples, thank you. There’s a possibility he read John’s blog and thought to lace them with a natural bacterial poison like the case with the murdered jeweler in Leichester Square.”  
“Not everyone’s like you. Sometimes the answer really is right there.”  
Sherlock knew she was probably right, but he took the apples anyway.  
***  
Molly woke up to her clock radio playing “More Peas,” by James Brown. She hadn’t heard that song in years and it reminded her of being a little girl and playing under the kitchen table while her father fried fish. She sat up, a bitter-sweet smile on her face. She went to the bathroom and got ready for her shift. As she brushed her teeth, she imagined the conversation with her mum about Tom, and tried to brace herself for the inevitable questions. She hadn’t had the nerve after Sherlock left to make any calls. She hadn’t had the energy to do much of anything but watch black and white Cary Grant movies and order takeaway noodles.  
Molly pulled on her favorite sweater, the green one with the lace filagree leaves patterned across the front, hoping to feel more pulled together. She thought about her oatmeal and her coffee. Her trip to the kitchen ended abruptly when she noticed the boxes stacked neatly in her living room and the treadmill placed optimally in the corner--right where she probably would have put it herself.   
Ice webbed up her spine as she thought of Tom moving with impunity through her apartment while she was dead asleep. Then she noticed the envelope set on top of the boxes--cream colored stationary with gold filagree initials-WSSH.   
Baffled, she slit open the envelope and removed a neatly printed letter.  
Molly,  
I removed your things from Tom’s house in order to alleviate some of your discomfort. He’d been planning on holding your belongings hostage as a kind of bargaining chip, but I managed to convince him it was in his best interests to give all of that up. You will notice some of your undergarments are missing. The destruction of these items is entirely Tom’s fault as he was attempting to secret them away for unsavory sexual purposes. I confiscated and incinerated them.   
Despite his thrift in regard to gift-giving, he has quite a lot of money at his disposal. Upon my insistence, he’s provided you with several hundred dollars to compensate you for the inconvenience he’s caused. He has deleted your number, unfollowed you on all social media platforms and promised me he will forget where you live. I know you’ve abandoned your blog, but I still recommend you delete the contents as he had it saved as one of his “favorites.” John can help; he’s clever with that sort of thing.  
\--Sherlock  
P.S.: I’m keeping his pajamas. The apples tested negative for all poisons and substances, but, unfortunately, were destroyed in the scientific process.  
Molly smothered a laugh. She folded the note and put it in her purse.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had been shopping earlier in the day. Turns out paying cash at a jewelry store set the clerk on edge, especially in the case of a $10,000 ring. He wanted to tell the man not to get so flustered, the engagement ring was coming right back to the shop, but he didn’t want to endanger his plan.  
Although, being near Janine might have been the worst danger to his plot. She wasn’t in love with him, thank god, he could see that on her face and the way she moved. The person he pretended to be when he was around her was pleasant enough, but he knew that if he were to relax around her, show her his true face, she would leave. For that reason, smiling at her, listening to her stories and eating food in her presence was thoroughly exhausting.  
Worst was kissing her, because he kept comparing her lips to Molly’s. Janine’s were perfect. She’d had an injection to plump them out and it gave her face a surreal kind of symmetry. Not like Molly at all. They were utterly perfect, and he decided they were in fact, too perfect.  
When he kissed Janine he couldn’t stop thinking about Molly and the way she’d looked at him when she bandaged his ribs and how it felt to hold her while she wept in his arms. It was painful and uncomfortable and he started shooting up as part of his plan but also because numbness was far preferable to all that useless feeling.  
He had the ring tucked away in his drawer next to the pajamas he stole from Tom and the gift Molly had given him for Christmas, the one that had been wrapped in sumptuous red paper to echo the color of her imperfect lips. On the night she gave it to him, he’d humiliated her in what he thought was a playful little show--something degrading yet conspiratorial that was supposed to make her and everyone else laugh. Afterward he’d apologized, but the damage was done, her holiday ruined. She would spend her Christmas dissecting a corpse instead of going to see her family.  
He’d unwrapped the gift later that night after she left; an antique box of unique specimens collected by a gentleman scientist in the late 1850’s. They were fascinating, and meaningful to his interests. He’d hoped it would have been a pair of novelty socks covered in deerstalker caps. Seeing it made him feel like he was breaking her heart all over again.  
He kept the lovely wooden box in the drawer, along with the torn paper in which it had been wrapped, and the card marked up with her careful script, as though they were evidence of a crime. He would take out the gift and the wrappings and the card and look at them, methodically piece by piece. While he reread the card, he would think about her black dress with the silver bar at the top, the little bow in her hair to echo the silver bar--meant to be whimsical but just coming off tacky. Her bra straps showed under the straps of the dress--black. She hadn’t thought to buy a stapless bra. She didn’t know better, or she hadn’t the time-didn’t realize she could have gone without one and been fine. She wasn’t comfortable, wasn’t good at that sort of thing. Probably terrified her nipples would show through, not realizing that would have helped her aim. Not a seductress-not Molly Hooper. At the party, he’d compared her unfavorably to Irene which in retrospect was terribly unfair. Molly’s job wasn’t to seduce or flatter. Her sexuality was not performance art. All Molly had wanted was to love him and he’d found the thought so upsetting that he’d tried to destroy her.  
She never should have let him back in her life after that. It angered him that she’d wasted so much time on him and yet he needed her. If she stopped he would be truly alone--John left and John was the only other person who could tolerate him. He couldn’t change, couldn’t be like all these ordinary people around him, hearts outside of their bodies. How did they manage when things ran by in a blur then ended full stop? How could they find the strength? How could she?  
***  
John and Mary found him at a flophouse and then took him to pee in a cup for Molly Hooper. Not the type of intimacy either of them wanted. Then she slapped him, not once, but three times across the face.  
The sound stopped everyone. Mary and John stared. Molly demanded an apology for wasting his gifts on behalf of the people who loved him. He made a snide comment about her broken engagement because he knew she hadn’t told anyone yet, even though it had been three weeks.  
“Don’t do this,” Molly begged.  
He tried to look bored talking to her, which was difficult when she was incandescent with rage and her hand-print burned on his skin.  
The next phase of his plan to steal back Lady Elizabeth Smallwood’s letters was set to go that night. He would propose to Janine, gain admittance to Magnusson’s office and then retrieve the blackmail materials.  
It would all be simple, and he could even include John like old times. However, he kept replaying the slaps in his mind over and over again on the car ride back to Baker Street. She’d never stood up to him that way before. When she hit him, it felt like more than a scolding. It felt like an ending.  
When they got home, John searched for his old chair, ruffling his hair and looking like a puppy whose doghouse had burned down. Janine lied asleep in his flat, asleep in his bed. He left John alone in the living room and went in to gather his clothes and see to Janine.  
She snored softly. He circled the bed for a moment, taking in her dark tangle of hair, her too-perfect lips. Her breasts were larger than Molly’s and he supposed that was supposed to be better. Men were supposed to slot women out like that, their own self-worth dependent on the size of their mate’s breasts or the age of the women who deigned to eat meals with them. Maybe that’s how other men managed all that terrifying feeling, the true powerlessness of knowing that control of the universe would forever elude their reach. Reducing a woman to her parts--components which would depreciate faster than the worth of a new car--rather than embracing the whole irresistible picture was very efficient indeed. However, it had stopped being an effective exercise for him.  
Sherlock woke Janine up gently by laying a hand on her hair.  
“It’s time to go,” he murmured.  
She smiled up at him. “Two ships passing in the night, eh Shirl?  
“I’ll try to come by tonight and bring you a little present.”  
“Presents? Why am I so lucky?”she sat up, letting the sheet fall as though she already knew the answer.  
“Because you’re beautiful,” he said, and he meant it, too.  
If she hadn’t been beautiful, Magnusson would never have hired her to face his public. That and her unsavory past, being involved with a married man whose wife died under suspicious circumstances. Janine had left her adulterous boyfriend soon after the first wife died and he later went on to be convicted of killing his second wife, but it would be easy to spin her as some sort of con-conspirator. He was certain Magnusson had a doctored piece of evidence he used to manipulate Janine, which was why she hadn’t quit even though she despised her boss.  
They put on a little show for John before Janine left--she sat in his lap and extended a dinner invite to John and Mary. She glided out the door, floating out on kisses and lies. John looked baffled.  
It was the ideal distraction, because John got caught up in the idea of Sherlock’s sex life and largely forgot he was a lapsed addict.  
John could be dazzled.  
Molly could not.  
After Janine left, he explained his newest case to John, laying out the deep malevolence and high profile of his target. All the while, he could not stop thinking of Molly, while John kept on about the double dinner date. On the front reel of his brain, Sherlock ran through his suspicions about Magnusson. In the back reel the slap against his cheek kept reverberating. Even though he felt the excitement of getting John on board and knew they could accomplish his goal that night, there suddenly appeared another player on the board.  
Sherlock had to make sure Molly was still his ally.  
She had walked out of the room with the air of someone utterly exhausted. He’d pretended not to be watching her exit, but he’d made note of her determined resignation. It occurred to him that Molly Hooper could be lost to him, but it was clear from the signs he’d pushed her too far. If he didn’t make amends to her somehow, he wondered if she would ever welcome him back again.  
That particular night was the best one to hatch his Janine plot, because Magnusson would be gone with only a skeleton staff in house. Still, if Sherlock calculated correctly, he could wait a day and deal with the additional interference. Magnusson would be in town all week--Molly might already be gone.  
Sherlock contrived a reason for John to leave with the promise of returning the next night. He even agreed to a tentative dinner party date. When the apartment was empty again, he sent Janine some white roses and a syrupy note, knowing it would keep her interest another day. Before he left for Molly’s house, he looked over the Christmas gift, fingered the paper and reread the card. He pocketed the engagement ring, just in case he should have a chance to break away early.  
Just like always, he took a circuitous route to Molly’s flat. He knew he was being followed by his brother, by his enemies, and he wanted Molly kept secret from all of them. It doubled the time it took to reach his destination, but he deemed the sacrifice worthwhile.  
Sherlock stood on the front steps of Molly’s place. Typically, he scaled the building and crawled in through the bedroom window. This time he rang the bell.  
His heart beat louder as he heard her padding down her steps. She came to the door in her pink bathrobe and some mismatched pajamas. Bare feet. When she saw him, she tightened her belt, smoothing the fabric in front of her body and folded her arms.  
“What do you want?” she asked. He could see her gathering her courage to speak bluntly with him. That was a good sign, because she’d been careless about offending Tom.  
He resisted the urge to yell at her for coming out to greet an unexpected visitor with no shoes or weapon. Instead, he swallowed his rebuke.  
“Can I come up?”  
“Are you asking me now? Usually you make a point of breaking in.”  
“I am asking.”  
She inhaled and exhaled, as though drawing her strength, before she stepped out of the way. He tromped up the steps to her flat. She hadn’t locked the upstairs door, and he shook his head.  
“What if someone had gotten in while you were downstairs. That’s reckless and foolish.”  
She laughed, but the sound got caught in her throat.  
“Says the man who spent last night shooting up.” She pushed her door open. He winced in embarrassment that some of her neighbors might have heard, but a quick glance around let him know they were alone.  
They went inside her apartment. She set the lock and then they were just looking at one another. She still held her closed posture and crossed arms.  
“I’ve come here to apologize.”  
She came closer to him, thawing slightly.  
“I need more than an apology. Promise me you’ll get help.”  
“Molly, this is for a case--something more complicated than you could possibly understand.”  
“I doubt that, honestly. I’m sure I could understand, and offer you five more alternatives that wouldn’t involve you damaging your internal organs. You think differently and it is beautiful, but everyone needs--”  
“A second opinion? I know, that’s why I’ve got John.”  
“He would agree with me.”  
He sighed and rolled his eyes.  
“Could you imagine me talking about this to a crowd in group therapy,? Presenting myself?”  
“Honestly, no.” She pulled at her own hair and began to pace. “You’ve got money. There are facilities that would take you on without group therapy.”  
“Strangers? You know I couldn’t. It would become another game, trying to fool them. My mind is all I have and the thought of someone trying to tinker again--”  
“Let me take you someplace, just us. I can prescribe you medication, monitor you through withdrawal--”  
“I’m working.”  
“You’re dying. You may not look it yet, but you will. I can help you. Please, let me,” She moved close to him again, and took both his hands in hers. It looked like she was praying.  
He couldn’t move. His first instinct was to sink to his knees and bury his face against her stomach. It would feel so good to let her take care of him, even for a day. He wanted to prostrate himself before her and yet, his mind seemed to snap back in the opposite direction. He wanted to ridicule her abilities, her choice of clothing, her mouth.  
“What makes you qualified to take on such a hopeless case?” he asked, bitterly.  
“I’ve done it before.”  
“Did it stick?”  
“For a few years, actually, but then he broke my heart.”  
“Yes, I’d imagine it’s been a lifetime of disappointment for you.”  
“There it is,” She let go of his hands. “I’ve been waiting for it. I wish you’d never be lovely to me because it’s always worse when you come back around.”  
She walked away from him, to her bedroom. He followed her, suddenly terrified and wishing he could control himself around her. It was so easy to talk sweetly with Janine, but when it came to someone who mattered to him, he seemed to find kindness impossible.  
Molly marched into her bedroom. She opened the closet door and dragged out his pressed suit. She threw it on the bed with a venomous snap of her wrist.  
“Find another place to hide because I can’t do this any more. I read your file--I know what’s coming next and you might not survive it this time.”  
“You think you know me, Molly Hooper?” He took a step toward her. With their height difference, it didn’t need to be particularly menacing to be effective. She cowered slightly. “Half of that file I manufactured to charm my psychologists, just like I charmed you when we first met. It’s lies for the gullible, the naive--”  
“Your heart stopped. That wasn’t a lie. Maybe the stories you told weren’t real, but the opiates in your system are. I’m a scientist--I see where you carry your pain on your body, where your bones have healed, where you organs are beginning to fail. I know your insides.”  
“So you knew a slap was the best way to get my attention?”  
She looked away from him. “I lost my temper.”  
He stared at his feet.  
“If I went away with you, it would have to be tomorrow night. I’d need to finish the case.”  
“If you agree to come, I’m not letting you out of my sight again. When was your last dose?”  
“Two and a half hours ago.” He’d taken it in the bathroom after Janine left to get dressed while John sat dumbstruck in the living room.  
“You’ll need something to help with the cramping and the sickness soon.”  
He knew she was right--he was already beginning to twitch and feel anxious.  
“Fine. You can come with me,” he said.  
“We need to stop at Bart’s for supplies. I haven’t put in vacation since my father died, that’s four years. Mike won’t begrudge me two weeks now. He approved my honeymoon, so I’ll just switch the dates around. Then I’ll have to call my cousin Alfie. He won’t mind cleaning the family cottage before we get there or stocking the fridge.”  
“Cottage? I never pictured the Hooper clan being capable of acquiring a second home.”  
“My father wanted to be someplace lovely for his dying. We bought the cottage we used to rent in the summers. All the medical equipment I used to care for him is still there. I can set you up with an IV and monitor your electrolytes. Keep you comfortable.”  
“Have you been plotting this for a while?”  
“Since this afternoon. It’s not the way I wanted you to run away with me.”  
For a moment that urge came again to sink down on his knees before her. He glared at her.  
“You never answered me about the case.”  
“All right. I’ll change, if you could--” She did a scooting motion with her hand.  
“You trust me outside of this room? I should think you’d want me to stay.”  
“Are you joking?”  
He made a point of leisurely flopping down in the pink and gold upholstered chair she’d set in the corner of her room. It was overly frilly and Edwardian style-adjacent, like the rest of her flat. Her Austin-lite design choices reminded him of a public high school production of “Persuasion.” He would probably tell her so, if given enough time. Instead he waved his hand dismissively in her direction.  
“Go ahead,” he said. “Strip.”  
Molly clenched her jaw.  
“You’re already trying to be intimidate me--this won’t work without you on board. Sherlock, do you hear me?” She walked over to him.  
“Then why did you give me an ultimatum? The coercion started with you, your demands.”  
She stopped.  
“Fine.”  
She practically tore off the robe and tossed it onto the floor. Defiantly, she undressed, even though he watched her. He’d never seen her naked before and it made his mouth dry. He thought the drugs had destroyed any remaining sexual desire he hadn’t repressed, yet the sight of her disquieted him. It wasn’t so much her legs or her ass or her oft commented upon breasts which were in reality fine--more than fine--but that she would do anything for him.  
Watching her artlessly undress made him think of the week he spent with Irene. Miss Adler had removed her clothes with seductive elegance and purpose. They were opposites on a continuum, Molly and Irene.  
As Molly tugged on a jersey, she realized he was openly staring at her. She met his eyes.  
“You’re going to tell me my bottom is too flat and my thighs are jiggly. Go ahead--”  
“I didn’t notice.”  
Her face fell and he didn’t know what he said. She unfurled her long hair from underneath her collar, the brown strands fanning out for one beautiful moment. Then she was all efficiency again.  
“Let’s go,” she said.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly studied Sherlock as they sat in the back of the cab. He’d grown more agitated since they left Bart’s with her supplies. Perhaps the reality had finally set in and he’d begun to regret agreeing to her plan. He kept toying with something in his trouser pocket, and she wondered if he’d brought drugs with him to use when he was alone. She made a note to search his pockets when she got the chance.  
It had been an awkward ride. After he’d stared at her while she changed, then implied looking at her was nothing at all, she’d been unable to stop nursing the wound. She would endure his anger and his cruelty if it meant saving his life--but she wasn’t certain how much she could take.  
“So how did Tom propose to you?” he asked, abruptly.  
She couldn’t stop a disgusted noise from leaving her throat. Clearly he’d decided to keep up his antagonism.  
“Gondola,” she said, quietly.  
“Italy? That’s something--I assumed he was too cheap to spring for something that tasteful and romantic.”  
“No, we were in a gondola going across the Thames.” She wished she could sink into the floor of the car.  
“But you despise heights.”  
“How do you know that?”  
“That’s not the right question to ask. The right question, is why didn’t he?”  
“He did. In fact, he had to talk me into getting on.”  
“But you said yes to his marriage proposal anyway, even though you were probably crawling up the walls.”  
“Maybe he knew I’d agree to anything when I was in that state.”  
Sherlock surprised her with a genuine laugh. He laid his hand beside hers on the car’s seat, nearly touching. For the first time she wondered if he’d just been trying to make conversation.  
“I think he got the idea from some film, I don’t know. I lost my lunch on his shoes after.”  
That detail made Sherlock laugh harder. “Memorable. John asked Mary at their flat. No Baroque plots,” he said.  
“Yes, I think he had something more elaborate planned but it fell apart at the last second.”  
“Don’t be coy. We both know I ruined what he’d planned. At least I hope I made it up to them at the wedding.”  
“I thought the song you wrote for them was wonderful. I’ve always dreamed of having a song written for me.” She wished she hadn’t said that out loud. He didn’t react to it at all, just kept staring out the window. “You still haven’t told me what we’re doing--what’s my part in this?”  
He cleared his throat. “Now that I think on this, you won’t do, it has to be John. If you don’t trust me, you can wait in the lobby and I’ll go up with him. We can call him. He should know about the detox, anyway.”  
“Do you think it’ll be dangerous?”  
“You could get hurt. In fact, if you go in I can almost guarantee you’ll be hurt. It’s just better if John goes.”  
“All right.”  
Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and began texting. Then he stopped, his thumbs poised above the screen.  
“Good Lord,” he muttered.  
“What? What is it?”  
The cab stopped and Molly realized they were surrounded by emergency vehicles and a news van was stopped just up the road. Sherlock leaned closer to her and showed her his screen. On it was a live feed from the newsvan they could see up the street. He clicked on the sound and they huddled over his phone to listen:  
“Charles Augustus Magnusson has been assassinated in his offices. Two other people who worked with Magnusson were injured in the attack. No more is known, as the families of the victims have yet to be notified.”  
“We were on our way,” Molly whispered. “Was this man someone you were supposed to protect?”  
“No--the opposite.” He smiled. “Mycroft will be handling things. Nothing barring us from going to your cottage now.”  
The traffic before them had utterly congealed into a mass of cars. Blue and red spinning lights reflected off of the still vehicles and onto the buildings.  
“Except for the obvious,” he added.  
“We can get out and walk to the tube station, if you’re feeling well enough.”  
“I’m not an invalid.”  
Molly ignored him and paid the driver. As she leaned forward with the money, she glanced at Sherlock’s phone again and noticed him texting with someone called Janine. There was a heart emoji in the mix.  
When they got out onto the sidewalk Molly hefted her heavy medical bag across her shoulder. Sherlock continued to text and walk, not offering to help with her burden.  
“Who is Janine?”  
“Janine Hawkins. Personal assistant to Charles Magnusson and one of the people injured tonight. She seems generally unaffected by her ordeal.”  
“How do you know her?”  
“Dating. Met her at John and Mary’s wedding.”  
Molly continued walking even though she felt like her body had completely detached from her mind. Jealousy came in like a tide and she was drowning. Janine Hawkins, the pretty brunette bridesmaid who had the gall to be funny and quite nice as well. She’d lent Molly a safety pin in the bathroom. While he continued to text, the blue screen glowing in his hands, she imagined what his children with Janine would look like.  
He didn’t speak, or smile as he kept up the silent conversation with Janine. Somehow he could walk and text without running into light poles. He got ahead of her. As they kept moving toward the tube station, Molly’s brain slowly came back to her. She stomped down all her feelings of envy and thought--really thought--about what he said.  
This was a man who had never been involved in an adult relationship for the six years she’d known him. The closest he had to a partner was John, who vehemently denied their friendship had a romantic component. The drugs in his system would cause sexual dysfunction. Most damning, Janine was intimately connected to his target. Molly ran to catch up with him.  
“You’re leading her on, aren’t you? This is about your work.”  
“Very good. I needed access to his office and she was the way.”  
“Does she have any idea?”  
“No clue. I can be very convincing when I try.”  
“That’s awful. You’re not breaking up with her over text, are you?” Molly peeked at his phone. He hid it away from her behind his back.  
“I was--you don’t think that’s a good idea? I’d prefer not to see her again so I was going to be truthful about the situation.”  
“Don’t--you need more lies. Tell her you’re dealing with a health crisis and you realize you’re in no place to be someone’s boyfriend.”  
“That’s true--I thought you said we needed to fix this with more lies. Be consistent Molly Hooper.” He tossed the phone to her and she fumbled to catch it. “Here, you tell her. You no doubt have more experience than me.”  
She stopped, trying to figure out what to type. He stopped beside her.  
“What is it, why aren’t you walking?”  
“I’m trying to figure out what you’ve said to her already.”  
He herded her toward the wall of the nearest building, forming a sort of shelter for her with his body so she could look at his old texts. It was warm, but windy that night. His correspondence with Janine was treacly and standard, going back two months. She recognized some of the lines from a dating book about communication that had gone missing from her shelf. She’d assumed Tom had taken it—but apparently Sherlock had used it to dupe an unsuspecting woman into opening up her office (not euphemistically.)  
The last few texts expressed concern about her health while subtly pumping for information. Janine didn’t see much of anything during the attack—a figure in black injected her with a sedative and beyond that she could recall no detail.  
“Did you sleep with her?” Molly arched her eyebrow at him.  
He looked down at her with a deliberately obtuse expression.  
“I slept with you—do you mean like that?”  
“No, of course not. I mean did you compromise her honor?”  
“Not very much?”  
“What does that mean?”  
“It means we never got into messy paternity issues and she had a bit more fun than I did. The rest is unimportant.”  
“I can’t picture that.”  
“Your respiration rate says differently. Now how would you let her down, if it were your fake girlfriend?”  
Molly thought on it a moment. He stood so closely to her she could feel his warmth. There was a ticking clock on his comfort before withdrawal set in, and she didn’t wish to run it out.  
“Since it wasn’t a terribly serious relationship, I think you can get away with text. I’m typing that you, here, I’ve written this.”  
“Read it to me.”  
“Okay, ‘I’ve never told you that I have had some addiction issues. I thought they were over, but since my support system has changed--’”  
“Support system—that’s good. She likes that therapy-lite speak.”  
“Right, so, um, ‘intimacy is one of my triggers and I’ve relapsed. When I realized you were hurt, my first urge was to use drugs to cope with how I’m feeling. I know I need help, I can’t be in a relationship right now, but I care a great deal for you and would like to remain friends.’”  
“That will leave her happy?”  
“If not happy, then less humiliated and used.”  
“Then send it.”  
Molly sent the text on his behalf. A pit formed in her stomach as she did it.  
Molly sighed. The phone vibrated in her hand and she read Janine’s response out loud.  
“‘I’m sorry it didn’t work. Be well.’” Molly said. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”  
She looked up at him and he down at her.  
“Well done, Molly Hooper,” he said, quietly. He grabbed her arm. “I’m ready to go.”

***  
She’d anticipated a difficult road to the cottage, which was why she gave him a pill to ease his cramping. It helped, but by the time they got there, his discomfort was such that he’d curled up in the backseat of the cab with his head on her lap. His skin burned with fever and his shirt had become wet from sweating.  
The lights were on in the cottage, and she saw Alfie’s truck out front.  
She paid the cabbie, who offered to carry the bag.  
“No, I’ll manage, thank you,” she said.  
She half dragged Sherlock out of the taxi, the medical bag bumping her side. Sherlock bent around her, his arm heavy on her shoulders. The scent of pine and the soft chirping of crickets greeted them.  
“Did you just hand that man half a week’s salary to cart us out here?” Sherlock mumbled.  
“It’s fine. I had loads saved for the wedding.”  
“I’ll see to you when we get inside.”  
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but was too worried about making it inside without dropping him. Alfie came out onto the front steps and hurried over to them. Alfie had a beard, flaming red hair and the big shoulders of a lumberjack. They’d lived across from each other growing up in the suburbs but he’d grown to be quite striking and married up. He’d taken over his wife’s family estate and become a gentleman farmer.  
Her cousin picked up Sherlock’s other arm, taking most of his weight off of Molly.  
“Thank you, Alfie,” she said. “It means everything to me that you did this.”  
“It’s what family does.” He gave Sherlock an appraising glance. “He looks a bit like your Tom, doesn’t he?” Alfie asked.  
“Tom looks like me,” Sherlock managed to sound commanding even though he could barely stand. He straightened himself, despite the pain, and walked to the cottage on his own two feet.  
“Stubborn, isn’t he? That could either help with this or sink it,” Alfie said.  
“Yeah.” Molly couldn’t help it, her voice cracked and she felt tears spring up in her eyes. Her cousin saw and gave her a hug. He’d always been more like her brother than anything.  
“It’ll be fine, Mouse.” He was the only person still allowed to use her childhood nickname.  
She hoped Sherlock hadn’t heard it, but she could tell by the way he looked at the two of them that he had. Now she knew he’d deduce it, deduce the whole relationship and throw something that was fond and dear coming from Alfie in her face.  
The three of them went into the cottage. Everyone in the Hooper clan had pitched in for her dad’s cottage, and everyone had a few weeks in the year they blocked out to use the place. It was on Alfie’s property, so caretaking fell to him on the off time. He’d been surprised to hear from Molly, because she hadn’t visited since her dad died.  
“My boys miss you,” Alfie said as they walked to meet Sherlock at the door.  
“Work has been busy. People just keep dying, it never seems to let up,” she smiled at him and he nodded. “I promise this Christmas, I’ll bring mum round. She’s been doing the holidays with Nico’s family in Greece, but I think she’s missing everyone.”  
“You can always come, just you.”  
“I know.”  
They stepped into the light of the cottage, and her heart felt like it was being squeezed. Memories of her father weakly holding her hand as he drew in his last breath, the way his eyes glazed, the last time they watched Casablanca together and he forgot who she was for a moment, his rattling cough.  
She looked to Sherlock and thought this was the last place she ought to have brought him to get well. He went over to the bed that Alfie had dutifully set up in the sun room for them and sank down.  
“Paloma wants to have you over for dinner one night. I told her it wasn’t that kind of visit, but she insisted.”  
“Hmm. I’ll try.” She couldn’t take her eyes of Sherlock.  
Alfie squeezed her shoulders. “You okay, Mouse?”  
“Of course. Thank you again for all this.” She smiled at him, and he gave her one in return. Then he kissed her cheek and said his goodbyes.  
Molly locked the door, then went over to the bed. She took out her stethoscope from the medical bag and listened to Sherlock’s heartbeat. He sat on the bed in his suit, grimacing.  
“Can I have a sedative, Dr. Hooper?” He asked through gritted teeth.  
“Too dangerous--you could aspirate. Do you need to vomit again?”  
“No, that pill you gave me in the cab tamped it down.”  
“Do you want help undressing, or would you like some privacy?”  
“Help me--but you take off your coat. No need for us both to be uncomfortable.”  
She nearly made a comment about how lately he kept trying to get her to take off her clothes in one way or another, but she couldn’t think of a way to make it sound amusing. Molly took her stethoscope from her ears. She eased out of her beige coat, her long, rainbow colored scarf slipping to the floor. She picked both of the items up and walked to the door, hanging them on the bamboo coat rack. The inside of the cottage was really rather pretty--lots of light colored wood, white plastered walls and delft blue touches. Alfie had replaced a few of the older pieces that had been there before with Swedish furniture, so it looked light and fresh.  
The sun room was the prettiest part, with floor to ceiling windows that looked out on the garden in the back. Inside hung lots of plants. Sherlock never had any plants at his place, but they made her feel better. Somehow they felt like they were cleaning the air, even though rationally she knew their actual oxygen output was nominal at best.  
Molly went back to see to Sherlock. He’d made no headway with his clothes, but he held a square ring box. Her puzzlement must have shown on her face.  
“It’s something for your trouble.” He handed the box to her.  
She thought it might be heroin, until she cracked open the hinge.  
Inside she saw a stunning diamond solitaire ring. Molly felt like she was back sitting in a gondola far above the Thames. Suddenly all of his talk in the cab about marriage proposals didn’t seem cruel anymore. In light of this gift he’d probably been investigating what her reaction might be. She’d said yes to Tom even under the most horrible circumstances, so perhaps he thought she’d do the same for him?  
In her fantasies about Sherlock, marriage had never entered into things.  
The reality was that they’d never even kissed, or been on a real date and living with him would be what? Impossible.  
“Why are you giving me an engagement ring?”  
“The receipt’s underneath the cardboard insert. You can take it back to the shop and exchange it or just have the money. I’ve no use for it anymore.” He yanked his shirt down his shoulders as he simultaneously struggled to pop his shoes off without untying them. Molly was too entranced with the ring to make a move to help. She gazed down at the flawless stone.  
“This is just a---a thing you happened to have in your pocket?”  
“Yes, I thought I might need it as part of the ruse to get into the office to see Janine. She’d never say yes to the proposal, but she’d permit me to go up to Magnusson’s office to let me down easy--”  
“That’s,” She couldn’t believe she’d thought he was trying to propose. Of course he wasn’t, and she was relieved but maybe just a tiny smidge sad, too. “I can’t take this--it’s too valuable, and the sentiment--”  
“There’s no sentiment. Take the ring. Wear it or don’t, I don’t care. But you should be compensated.”  
“I don’t do this for compensation. I love y--”  
“Don’t. Just let me have some illusion of dignity through this and allow me to pay you something.”  
She closed the creaky box with a snap and then shoved it into her pocket. Molly knelt between his knees and took off his shoes. He stopped struggling and let her undress him, down to his underwear. As she did it, she folded each piece of his beautiful dark suit and set it on a chair by the bed. Tears pressed behind her eyes, but she refused to let him see her crying.  
“When was the last time you ate?” she asked.  
“I can’t eat--”  
“That’s not why I’m asking.”  
“Dinner with Janine last night.”  
“I need to put the IV in your arm now and you’re certainly dehydrated, so it may be a process.”  
She unpacked the supplies from her bag. It had been years since she’d done an IV on a live person. Sometimes, she’d practice on corpses just to keep up the skill. Sherlock’s veins were so narrow from dehydration, they might as well have been a dead man’s. Still, she got it in with only two sticks. Sherlock barely grumbled, much to her shock.  
“I know you don’t want it, but I’m going to make you some broth. I can give you a pill to help keep it down.”  
He put his hand on her wrist to stop her from walking away. The touch made her feel warm and fluttery in her stomach and so did the look on his face. He looked as though he would speak to her, but instead held her there, seeming to struggle for words. It was both new and lovely to have left him speechless. She kissed his forehead then slipped away from his grasp.


	4. Chapter 4

He couldn’t sleep.  
That was to be expected after everything and he could never sleep anyway but it was in a strange place and he was bored and Molly kept nodding off in the chair but wouldn’t get in the bed with him because of the IV.  
There was so much sweating now and his hair was plastered to his face but it was ungodly cold and Molly had stacked soft quilts on top of him that felt like a sodden cage but at least he’d stopped throwing up yet here he lay melting and no wonder she didn’t want to get in bed with him.  
It was better with her—of course he knew it would be because of her little white pills and her insistence that he drink bone broth and her IV and she stabilized the vomiting and the cramping and all the pain with her small, measured hands—but he still wanted to flee this well-appointed cottage for his dismal flat and his pain and his privacy.  
Of all the times he’d dried out--this being the third--this one was the least fraught because the first time he’d still been hiding his failures and had done it alone at age 17 when he’d been home on break from school and the second time had involved Mycroft and the U.S. Seal team dragging him onto a boat and then hiding him in a bunker and at least this time he was really doing it because he wanted to be the kind of man Molly Hooper would not have to mourn.  
He wanted to be free of this, not just to ease her mind or to make John proud or to get Myrcroft off of his back but because he was sick of being boring and weak and the superhuman aspects of drugs had ceased to work a long time ago and now they were just an albatross, sinking him down to earth.  
Molly was the key to all of this, setting him free again and saving his life as she had when he faked his suicide and he was grateful for her more than ever before.  
He hated that he had exposed the engagement plot to Molly because the whole reason he’d decided to pull John in was to avoid showing Molly his worst, but then of course he’d had to explain it out for her and give her that ring for no sane reason when he could have easily exchanged the jewelry himself, faked some sort of contest in which she believed herself to be the winner, had the bank issue the money into a cashier’s check and hired some sort of television presenter to give it to her.  
Easy.  
But now she knew and after hours of restlessness and tending to him and murmuring kind things to him she had fumbled with the box to play with it, play with it, play with it and flip and open and close until he’d demanded she put the damned thing on her middle finger because of course her fingers were even slimmer than Janine’s and it wouldn’t fit on the proper finger so he explained to her she must just put it on to satisfy her curiosity and it meant nothing, especially on that middle finger no one would suspect its nefarious origins and then they could throw the noisy box it came in into a volcano or the sea.  
She wore it now and it winked in the light of the early morning streaming through the windows and he would have to get her to pull the shades because that was bloody intolerable and how strange she thought light would help with any of this, but maybe her father’s preferences had something to do with it all but he didn’t wish to wake her now as she’d been restless and caring for him and helping him to the bathroom like the fucking beatific saint she was and yet with her small mouth and breasts and enormous eyes he somehow knew that part of him wanted to do unholy things to her.  
Wanting Molly was more of just a concept because the pain in his stomach and all of his joints and his head had stifled desire had become the only ache he could feel and in that way it wasn’t quite real and so he was choosing to continue to ignore those strange pangs and ideas for as long as he possibly could.  
He’d explained to her how the ring would always be hers to keep or sell and she didn’t have to pawn her heart or take it off for anyone but herself now, because it was a gift to her to have for herself and all her own and not dependent on antiquated social contracts that originated with women being sold as chattel and as an independent sort she’d genuinely prefer this he’d imagine than the small one Tom had given her because Sherlock had replaced it with one better in every way and F1 color and no inclusions and he’d be happy to have it resized if she cared for that but she said that wouldn’t be necessary because it wasn’t an engagement ring and he agreed and then she made him drink more bone broth which was abysmal but keeping him alive.  
All of this was abysmal but keeping him alive.  
She still had his phone and that was causing him pain too, but he hadn’t asked her for it yet because he didn’t trust himself with it when Billy Wiggins’ number was there and he could have easily called him to bring a care package which meant drugs, lots of varied, gorgeous drugs and she had asked John to come bring some of his clothes which they’d forgotten to gather in their flight from the city, because of course she said, she’d forget something major like that in her rush to get him out of there, but he was not so keen on John seeing him this way, not at all when he was in so much agony because John liked to think him to be in control even when he wasn’t and had no idea what he was doing and even when he had no idea what he was doing when he was with John he would fake it to the last, because that was what John loved—certainty.  
John loved the chase and the game and the danger and the sense of awe he could provide both consciously and by accident somehow but Molly loved something else and he wasn’t sure if it was a love worth having if he repeatedly did nothing to earn it and yet he could not relinquish this affection for anything because it was so utterly unique in his life because even his parents who came across as sweet and kind were really neither and treated him more like an employee which Mycroft said was because of self-protection because of all the hurt he caused again and again and again and Mycroft loved him but would have let him die if he weren’t so necessary to the safety of the British crown because it would be one less weakness to worry about but Molly was an endless source of compassion and support that he wondered why he even deserved but could not yield to any other man or woman or almighty deity.  
John would bring his clothes and probably Mary too and Molly’s clothes which was good because she was shifting uncomfortably in her seat because she needed to shower and lay flat on a bed but she wouldn’t leave him for even a second and it was driving him insane but he also loved it in a selfish way because if one was to be alone in his agony it was good to have a partner waiting outside of the pain and she’d read his file and he’d read the report she’d written about him and it had been incredibly accurate as to his mental state---not physical because even a perfect double wasn’t perfect—but Molly knew his mind better than even the head crackers that had tended to him from age 5 to age 18 and she didn’t even have to give him cognitive tests or lock him in a dark closet to see how he’d react to positive stimulation or was that negative stimulation because they took away light and sound and he didn’t think they really knew either.  
In her report Molly mentioned all the “hazing” he endured when he was younger which was really just him telling people the truth about their girlfriends or the shapes of their heads and them getting very violent about those truths and how when he was 14 he shot up to the height he now enjoyed and began boxing and all of that hazing stopped and she knew about his cousin Phyllidia and how he’d caught his Uncle Morris trying to mess about with her in the boathouse and how he’d beaten his uncle within an inch of his life but no one would believe him or Phyllidia as to why, so he had to go away for a bit but when he came back she became his closest friend and he protected her and when she went into sex work at Uni and became a dominatrix and the rest of the family disowned her and cut off her income he stood by her and filtered her own money back to her and when she wanted to get married to one of her clients and become a real estate agent and clean all of that from public view he helped her and they still texted every month but Molly didn’t know that last part because she thought Phyllidia was dead just like everyone else.  
Molly was the only one who realized that his cousin knew Irene, and she couldn’t conclusively say in her report that this was more than mere coincidence, but clever, sexy Molly had made a note of that coincidence in her report, and he knew that this was not mere coincidence but a plan by clever, sexy Irene who sought him out and Molly could not have made the connection between Phyllidia’s escape and Irene’s because of what she could never know, but she did make the connection of empathy between himself and these two women which other people didn’t think possible.

He cared, no matter how he tried otherwise.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly paced with the phone pressed to her ear. She wished she had thought to pack clothes--they’d been right at her house but Sherlock’s stunt of watching her undress had rattled her so. Alfie’s wife Paloma had lent her some things, but Paloma was glam and tiny so her clothes were also glam and tiny. To care for Sherlock she now wore a ruffled peplum t shirt from Alexander McQueen’s ready to wear collection and black jeans that seemed vacuum packed against her skin.   
“Yeah, John, I’m dressed like I’m going clubbing, it’s strange. At least I got a shower in,” Molly said.  
“Mary can bring you sweats and I can bring one of my lab coats if it would help,” John said with a chuckle. She could hear traffic in the background and his footsteps.  
“Thank you, John.”  
“Mrs. Hudson baked scones for you.”  
“She’s a lamb.”  
“How’s his fever?”  
“Gone.He’s finally resting.” She looked over at Sherlock who was sleeping under a clean blanket. His shivering had stopped the night before and his rest finally resembled normal sleep.  
“How are you, Molly?”  
She held herself around her stomach, and thought of how to answer that for perhaps a beat too long.  
“I’m fine. I look like a posh housewife and I remembered to eat today. I’m better than ever.”  
John laughed. Molly finished up her call and then went to sit beside Sherlock’s bed. His eyes clicked open like a machine whirring to life.  
“John’s coming,” he said.  
“That’s right, and Mary too.”  
“I wish he wasn’t. Call him and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”  
“No, I want another doctor to look at you and we’re running low on saline. I really enjoy seeing you in Alfie’s flannel shirts, but I’m sure you want your own clothes.”  
He flipped over in the bed drawing the blanket tighter around him. The flannel shirt he wore that day was bright, pumpkin orange and every cell of his body seemed to reject it.  
“He’s not like you. This type of thing would bother him.”  
“He’s a doctor and a soldier. He’s seen much worse.”  
He harrumped and flopped over again, this time facing her. She thought he might argue some more and didn’t know if she had the energy at that point for his anger.  
“Any word on who killed Magnusson yet?”  
“A terrorist group took credit it for it.”  
“Impossible. That was an execution of a shadowy public figure the majority of the public knew nothing about—there’s no way it was a terrorist cell.”  
“Well, that’s the official story. The US teamed with Great Britain for a drone strike on the head of the organization. He died.”  
“Travesty of justice. I’m sure Mycroft engineered that. Just the thing he gets up to when he’s bored.” Sherlock poked his head up from the blankets. “I’ll need a shower before John comes.”  
“Of course.”  
He didn’t need that much help getting up, not like he had the first two days they’d been there. She only steadied him and gathered up the clothes he wanted--the white shirt and dark slacks he’d come there in, which Alfie had cleaned and pressed.   
By the time he emerged, Sherlock looked like himself again, but he was utterly exhausted.   
She caught him around the waist as he swayed.  
“I got sick,” he said.  
“I’ll get it in a minute. Come on now, let’s get you back on the bed,” she said.  
“No, I can stretch out on the couch. We can watch a film. That’s something people do, isn’t it, Molly Hooper?”  
She walked him over to the plump couch in the living room, which could be made dark enough to watch television any time of the day. Molly deposited him on the couch where he made himself comfortable, kneading the cushions and such. She lowered all the shades. She dragged the IV pole and a new bag of saline over to him. He extended his arm without moving another muscle.  
“What would you like to watch?” She cleaned his port with alcohol and then hooked up the line.   
“You choose--I haven’t watched a movie on purpose for eight years.”  
“What was it?”  
“A documentary on wood ash.”  
“That tracks, doesn’t it?” She couldn’t help grinning at him. He smiled back at her, a faint imprint of hers, and smoothed her hair away from her face.  
“I’ve been on a bit of a classics kick--would that be good?” she asked.  
“If I don’t like it I’ll just point out the technical flaws and script inconsistencies. Then again, I may do that if I like it as well.”  
“Just like watching with my dad.”  
She left him alone to mop up the bathroom floor. It was really only a little bit of sick. She washed her hands and checked for stains in the mirror above the sink. Luckily, Paloma’s beautiful shirt still seemed pristine.   
She went into the living room and began to sit down on the chair next to the couch, but he rose on his elbow.  
“Sit here, there’s space and you’ll have to crane your neck from that angle if you choose the chair. The couch is the optimal point in the room to view a film and since you’re the one whose primarily interested in watching, you should sit here, on the couch.”  
“Sure,” she conceded without an argument. Tiny things had become the source of arguments over his convalescence and she didn’t need another discussion. She’d save the fight for getting him to eat.  
Molly found the remote and switched on the television before she joined Sherlock on the couch. As soon as she sat down, he inched up and plopped his head in her lap, just like her old cat Tobey used to do. Automatically, she stroked his hair as she flipped to the classic movie channel.   
“The Ugly Truth,” was just ending, but “Bringing Up Baby,” was next.  
“I love this one--be prepared for utter chaos,” Molly said.  
“I know it. You and Mrs. Hudson have similar tastes,” He seemed to drift off to sleep before the opening credits rolled. She liked having him on her lap, like an enormous jungle cat that she’d temporarily tamed. Before long the weight of him made her drowsy, and she began to nod off, until he spoke.  
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, about the other time you tried to help someone get clean. You couldn’t have finished medical school when you did that or I would’ve known. Tell me what happened.”  
Her stomach started to ache and her heartbeat began pounding. She wanted to jump up off the couch and walk far, far into the woods.  
“It’s not something I really want to talk about.”  
“Because you failed?”  
“It wasn’t--it wasn’t a failure. He was clean almost the whole two years we were together. It got bad after me.”  
“How old were you, Molly?”  
“We were 16. Please, you don’t need any more detail than that. This next part is a bit shameful.”  
“You just dressed me like a doll and cleaned my vomit off the bathroom floor. There is no shame between us anymore,” he said, softly.  
She let out a tense laugh.“You’re right, I s’pose.” She smoothed her fingers through his mass of curls, which were nearly dry. “I did research and stole the supplies from the surgery where my mother worked. My mother was a nurse and she could’ve been fired, but I wasn’t thinking of her. Shameful. I took him to his older brother’s flat, and got him clean. My parents thought I ran away. It was horrible.”  
“Then you broke up after such weighty beginnings. What was it--he couldn’t support your academic aspirations and wanted you to keep working at your father’s chip shop?”  
“No. He was going to come with me, even had a job. He relapsed a few weeks after graduation. He was scared of the next bit--and the fear pulled him down. I tried to tell him I was scared, too, but it didn’t matter.”  
“What was his name?”  
“Why?”   
“Why wouldn’t you tell me, unless there’s some reason I might know it? Given the time period and the circumstances, I will get it eventually.”  
“Gabriel Miller. I called him Gabe.”   
“Of course, George Ghent’s last victim. They only solved that last year.”   
“I knew you’d remember.” Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheek. She was good at that quiet crying, the kind that didn’t cause a fuss. She didn’t think Sherlock noticed, but of course, he noticed everything. He said nothing, so she continued speaking. “The way people talked about Gabe in my neighborhood--like he deserved that. And the police didn’t care because he was just a junkie. It made me angry and I wanted to take care of people that no one bothered with. That’s why my work’s at the morgue.”  
Molly dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. When she set her hand back down on his shoulder, he reached up and took it. He kissed her fingers.  
“I’m glad you work at the morgue, Molly Hooper.”


	6. Chapter 6

Molly woke up to knocking on the door. She and Sherlock had fallen asleep watching television. Somehow she laid flat on her back with him on top of her, his head on her chest and his arms strongly gripping her waist. On television the dance scene from “Holiday,” played--Carey Grant and Katherine Hepburn hand in hand, elegantly tipping over a couch and gliding on across the floor.  
“Sherlock, wake up, John’s here,” she said.  
He sat up. His hair had finished drying flat and it gave him a lopsided look. She giggled at the sight of him and he immediately patted his curls.  
“Oh for god’s sake, Molly, fetch me a comb.”  
She looked down at herself, to smooth her peplums, and realized he’d drooled a circle of dampness all the way across her chest.  
“Dear, oh dear,” she muttered as she dragged herself to her feet.  
Sherlock pulled himself up to full height using the IV pole, and made his way to the bathroom while Molly went to get the door.  
She could see John and Mary on the front step through the window in the door. She opened it for them and was greeted with hugs.  
“Did we wake you?” John asked.  
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”  
“We’ve got your clothes, and Sherlock’s, and Mrs. Hudson’s scones and John insisted we stop by a stand on the road so we’ve got loads of raw carrots and radishes,” Mary said.  
“It was charming, and I thought we’d make a day of it.” John gave Mary a look of mock exasperation. She’d seen him give Sherlock that look a hundred times. Mary responded to his dour expression with one of her bright smiles.   
In a flurry of activity, they began opening bags. After they were settled with their packages, Molly situated them on the still warm couch. She handed Mary the remote. Promptly, Mary shut off the television, so all the activity lapsed into absolute quiet. John looked around the cottage.  
“It’s nice. Where’s Sherlock?”  
“Bathroom--I should go check on him,” Molly said.  
Both Mary and John grimaced at that.  
“You want a cuppa after the trip?” Mary asked John.  
“Oh yes, that was rude--I’ll put the kettle on after I check on Sherlock.”  
“I’ll do it. Doing something with my hands will make this slightly less awkward, I think,” John said. He got up and went to the kitchen and Molly went to the bathroom door, knocking softly.  
“Are you all right, Sher--”  
He opened the door, cutting her off. “No need to be so fussy. I was just looking for some product. Luckily Paloma seems to be the sort to care about her appearance.”  
Molly felt slightly gutted by the implication of his words, but then Sherlock came out of the bathroom and the round of greetings began again. He looked genuinely wonderful--somehow using the mere minutes he had alone to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes and style his hair. Even his color looked better. The only way you’d know he was a sick man was the IV tethered to his arm.  
John abandoned the tea to walk over to Sherlock, and Molly silently picked it up again. She also set the scones out on a plate. Once she handed that over to John, she rummaged through the refrigerator for some fruit and cheese. She busied herself chopping and making it look nice before handing the platter to Mary.   
Molly wished she could fix them more food--she couldn’t bear to break into their chat. Sherlock had immediately begun talking about Magnusson again, ignoring their concerned questions about his health. John’s frustration gave way quickly to the excitement of speculation, but Mary looked uncomfortable. Molly suspected the whole thing bored Mary from the way she kept going in for more cheese and grapes instead of joining the conversation.   
Molly decided to save her.  
She went over to the three and sat down. Sherlock spoke about his theory that terrorists would never have been compelled to execute Magnusson.   
“John, would you mind examining Sherlock. I just want to be sure we’re on track,” Molly said.  
Sherlock glared at her, and she could almost feel the temperature in the room drop. Mary grinned.   
“That’s right, this isn’t just a social call, is it. Do you need help with the dishes, Molly?”  
“Dishes? I’ve barely had a bite,” John groused. He snatched up a plate of food before his wife could clear away the spread.  
John took Sherlock by the elbow and led him to her bedroom. On the way there Sherlock shot her a look, but she just glared back. He knew this was the purpose of the visit, and to pretend anything else would be wrong.  
Molly put cling film on the cheese and fruit tray. No doubt John would want more when he was through with the exam. Mary began to fill the sink with water.   
“You looked like you needed a rescue,” Molly said when she heard the door shut.  
“A bit, yeah,” Mary laughed. “Is Tom back in the picture?”  
“What, no, god no? Why would you ask after Tom?”  
“Well, he is in my wedding album forever, so thanks for that. Also, your ring. I thought maybe he bought you something better by way of apology.”  
Molly glanced down at her hand. “No--this is for me.”  
“Good for you. I never pictured you the type to splurge on yourself.”  
“Yeah.” She felt funny about tacitly lying, but didn’t want to explain how Sherlock had insisted she wear the ring. Molly joined Mary at the sink with a towel in her hand, knowing her cheeks were turning bright red. She could feel the heat traveling down her neck.  
“Speaking of the wedding, I was a little surprised John wanted to invite you.” Mary said.  
“Why?”   
Mary smiled at her, but somehow her expression had changed to something slightly terrifying.  
“Because you let him mourn Sherlock, knowing he was alive.”  
“Mycroft told me if John found out, he’d have him killed, and the men hunting Sherlock would find him. He got specific about that, what they’d do.”  
“You’re joking.” Mary sounded genuinely shocked, which made Molly think she’d never met Mycroft before.  
“What’s funny about any of that? I had their lives in my hands. It half killed me, seeing John torn up the way he was, but the alternative was worse.”  
“But there was a massive plot--Sherlock described a cast of thousands.”  
“Sherlock exaggerates. There were other people, yeah, but the only ones who knew he was still alive were Mycroft and me. The other people involved had no idea they’d been pulled into a plot or in the case of Mycroft’s men, they thought their mission failed. It was cut very, very fine. Sherlock nearly died that day.”  
“Still, a secret that big--I imagine you told your fiance.”  
“No. The only person I’d been tempted to tell was John and I didn’t. I believed Mycroft would do absolutely anything.”  
Mary nodded and that was the end of things--but Molly felt completely rattled. John was one of her closest friends, the last good man in London, really. She couldn’t stand the thought of his wife hating her.  
They finished doing the cleaning up and John and Sherlock came out of the room. John looked happy, but Sherlock still seemed irritated with her.  
John caught Molly up in a bear hug. “He’s better, Molly, much better. That’s down to you.”  
“We’re all together in this, John.”  
Mary hugged Sherlock, setting all of Molly’s protective instincts abuzz. It seemed impossible that Mary had just threatened her--she’d been to her hen night and bought her a very nice silver ladle for her wedding--but seeing her touch Sherlock’s arm made Molly want to drag him far away to safety.   
“Would you care to stay for dinner?” Sherlock asked.  
John nodded his approval, Mary looked inscrutable and Molly realized with a sinking feeling that there was nothing to serve their guests unless they wanted bone broth and toast.  
“Sherlock, Alfie hasn’t been able to stop by with the groceries.”  
John looked disappointed.  
“It’s all right. We were headed out to the bed and breakfast anyway. They have a little restaurant. Won’t get that many chances before the baby is born.”  
“Oh that’s right! Congratulations!” Molly said.  
She noticed Sherlock doing his patented press toward the door, trying to move everyone out. Mary and John gave them another round of hugs and then they went out to their car. Sherlock watched them go through the window. As soon as they safely pulled away, he collapsed on Molly’s shoulder, nearly dragging her down to the floor.  
“Why did you let them stay so long?”  
They’d been there less than an hour, but Molly realized that was the longest Sherlock had been upright since they’d begun his detox.  
“I didn’t realize--you looked so good.”  
“I didn’t want to upset John.”  
His cheek pressed against hers as she struggled to get him to the bed, and she realized his fever had returned.  
“You’re burning up. How did you hide that from him?”  
“Smoke and mirrors.”  
She managed to set him down on the hospital bed. He grabbed her around the waist and set his head on her shoulder.  
“No, your bed. I need you.” He sounded like a petulant child.  
“You’re not well. Now please just lie down.”  
He mumbled something incoherent at her and then flopped down. By the time she came back with more pills to reduce his fever, he was already babbling. Molly pulled the chair close to the bed, preparing herself for a long night.


	7. Chapter 7

More broth and more pills and a bit of toast which stayed down (mercifully) and a sponge bath which should have been pleasurable because Molly dragged the cool cloth against his bare skin with her small, clever hands but instead he felt daggers of ice shoot through him and she looked positively wounded when he snapped about that and he wanted to kiss her feet as an apology but that made her expression look worse and he really had no idea how he was going to make it up to her.

“Molly Hooper your name feels like something solid that can be held and touched.”

“Molly Hooper your name is like a song said all together in church and I want to sing it out like men who pray but Molly Hooper I am not a man who prays. Let me sleep in your bed every night and sing out your name while I rock inside you and spread your hair out on the pillow like a great fan fern and your eyes are like the stars I never bothered to learn because there wasn’t any time for something ordinary like the machinery of the cosmos whirring inexorably above our heads and never leave me even though you probably should, for I am, and have always been a dangerous man and never stop touching me and never, ever die Molly Hooper because I’m the only one permitted to die in this relationship since you know it won’t stick and never marry the way John did even if it is to someone as amazing as Mary and you almost did until I saved you from a life of clipping coupons and being ignored.”

“Molly Hooper don’t make me drink that--don’t put that paper straw in my mouth and wait--well, that wasn’t so bad, that.”

“Molly Hooper take your clothes off and get in bed with me and tell me all your secrets about the boys who didn’t deserve your love and let me unlock your cries and the soft sighs you’ll make against my neck if you tell me where to touch you and let me be the type of person who can stay in your life.”

“Molly Hooper I don’t want to play cards with you to pass the time because I will win every hand before it is played since I can feel the delicate gradations of paper on the surface of the cards and know automatically which numbers are on the other side and I don’t want to teach you chess because I have even less patience than usual because I’m sweating opium out of my pores.”

“Molly Hooper I keep forgetting where we are so do try and remember for me and tell me what has prompted you to change my saline bag and my sheets and force me to drink more of that strange drink that I rather like and the cherry jelly which I will never admit to you is my childhood favorite.”

“Your parents actually let you eat jelly?”

“Who told you that--was that in my file?”

“You just said it out loud to me. You realize you’ve been talking this whole time?”

“Don’t look so smug Molly Hooper just because you know about the jelly and are going to feed me until I burst and you’re calculating my urine output and temperature fluctuations and for no reason but love you’ve seen fit to save my life and I will never forget the way your body feels in the dark and the way you look peeling off your shirt because I know every mole and curve so well I could call it up and draw you from memory--let me prove it--go get some paper.”

“It’s all right. I believe you.”

“When did you have time to make all this jelly you’ve been serving me?”

“You’ve nodded off. John came again and let me sleep awhile. He said you kept calling him Molly Hooper and you revealed a latent talent for art, whatever that means.”

***

Sherlock’s fever broke and he finally stopped talking. Molly wasn’t sure what to make of all he’d said. Some of it had been really lovely and she had to wonder if he had feelings for her. On the other hand, it would be wrong to take too much from someone who was deliriously ill—once when she was sick, she’d told her mother that she could fly but had been hiding it from the family for years.   
Explaining why she’d gotten naked in front of Sherlock to John had proven a bit harrowing. He’d confronted her on the front step outside as she walked him to her car. The power of his anger had surprised her.

“It was before all this—I just changed in front of him because he was being stubborn, I didn’t think he even noticed me,” Molly hugged herself, a chill up her spine despite the July heat.

“Well, he did, and he was very particular about your appendix scar placement.” John handed her the sketch Sherlock had done of her. It might have been a photograph for how realistic his drawing looked—he’d truly noted everything. She started to crumple it up, but John snatched the paper from her hands. He held it up, much to her chagrin.

“Don’t do that—it’s good. Besides, I want to show it to him when he’s sober.”

“Please don’t.”

He hid the paper behind his back.

“You know, Janine was on the phone with us for a half hour, feeling awful about him, wanting to know what she could do. And you’re telling me you’re the one who sent the break up text.”

“I was trying to be kind—he was going to tell her he’d been using her to get to Magnusson.”

“You know I wouldn’t put it past him, that all tracks as Sherlock—but this doesn’t.” He held up the drawing. Molly tried to grab it back, but again, he was too quick. “Mary seems to think he gave you that ring.”

“Why would she think that?”

“The size is wrong, the price is too high and it looks like something he’d have chosen. Besides, after she said that I found the box with the receipt in it and his name is printed on the gem certificate.”

“I’m not using Sherlock or molesting him in his sleep or whatever you seem to think I’m doing.”

“Everyone knows how you feel about him—everyone.”

“I love him. The last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

“Yes, but love can make you do silly things, can’t it?”

She immediately regretted that she’d ever said that, back when she was desperate to know anything about Sherlock’s private life, she’d basically said x-raying her boyfriend’s phone wasn’t off limits. Of course it was then and would be now, but she hadn’t known how to respond when Sherlock called out her prying so she’d tried to make light.

“Ask him. He’s been saying strange things to me for days. Ask him when this is over.”

“Will you give him the ring back?”

“Yes, but he was the one who insisted I wear it.”

“Well he’s out of his head, so I’m sure he didn’t mean it. You know, if this had come at any other time, I would’ve been thrilled, but as it stands now—you have to know how this all looks.”

“I’ve been focused on getting him well. It’s taken every bit of energy just to do that without crumbling. I don’t know how I look.”  
John gazed at her, a great deal of his previous skepticism seemingly gone. He gave her a hug, and she nearly started crying in his arms.  
He’d left after that. If Sherlock heard anything, he didn’t stir or move. By the time he woke up, he didn’t even seem to remember John’s having been there.

“I feel better today, Molly Hooper. I think you should remove the IV and we can begin solid foods.”

“Only if you keep them down. Food first, then I’ll think about the IV.”

She slipped the ring off and stuck it in the box. Then she put the box away in his suitcase, so she wouldn’t be tempted to take it out again.

There were a few things in the fridge—Alfie had goats and he’d brought them some nice cheese. She sliced up an apple and some bread to have with the cheese.  
She brought it over to him and sat down. As he picked up the bread, she watched intently. Perhaps too intently.

“Stop gawping at me like this is a carnival sideshow. Haven’t you ever seen someone eat before?”

“I’m not—I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Where’s the ring I gave you?”

“I took it off— I can’t keep it.”

“Why not? It’s my money to do with as I wish.”

“I know, but you’re not in a state right now to be giving away $10,000.”

“John did this—didn’t he? He made you ashamed. What did he say to you?”

“He’s just trying to protect you.”

“From you? No, this isn’t coming from John, it’s coming from Mary. Why?”

“I brought Tom to her wedding and immediately dumped him, leaving her with the pictures of that idiot for the rest of her life.”

“Right—human things. Not my area. I can’t make you wear it, and I can tell by your resignation that you don’t want me to talk to John about this.”

“No.”

“We’ve another week here, haven’t we?”

“I would like to stay another week, if you could bear it--just to make sure you’re on your feet.”

“If you moved into Baker Street, we wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

“Move in with you? After what John said?”

“I don’t care what John says—he was the one who decided to marry and impregnate a woman, he doesn’t get his old room back.”

“He thinks I’m taking advantage of you.”

“That could be the most deranged statement I’ve ever heard—also irrelevant. You want to move in with me—of course we’ll have to limit the cat figurines to your room, but otherwise, perfect.”

“That would be giving over my life to you.”

“No, it wouldn’t—you could still date. John dated. Obviously, he stopped bringing them home which is what I’d recommend for you. Also, occasionally I would like to sleep with you, and boyfriends tend to   
dislike that.”

“Sleep with or—”

“Just sleep, like we have been. Like we do. The way we were on the couch, with my head in your lap. I want that whenever we’re home. Your boyfriend probably wouldn’t like that either, but he doesn’t have to know.”

“You don’t mean that—you’re not well.”

“I mean it, Molly Hooper. I want another roommate, someone who understands my work and who can be a source of strength when I want to relapse. John would be best, but you are more than adequate. I know I am a demanding person—but you’re used to that. And you were going to dedicate your life to boring, awful Tom, so don’t pretend you have something better to do with your time.”

“That’s the opposite of convincing me. Stop it now. Eat your lunch.”


	8. Chapter 8

The following days fell into a pattern.

Molly fed him breakfast at around 7 a.m., toast and scrambled eggs. She’d make sure he was eating before having her share. He would shower and dress, then they’d go for a walk. At first he could only make it to the stone bench with her father’s name carved into it in the back garden. After a few days, he could tread the grounds and she would tell him the names of all the plants.

After their walk, she’d read to him a bit. Paloma liked true crime books and he quite enjoyed those, too. They’d discuss the clues and Molly wasn’t ever squeamish about the violent bits.

She’d put him down for a nap, but he didn’t really sleep—he’d watch her cleaning or baking or crying. She did an awful lot of crying when she thought he was asleep.

After the nap was lunch—soups or fresh salad.

Then the afternoon walk.

She told him all about her father--he boxed in college, got a degree in English Literature and taught for years before he took over his own father’s fish and chip shop.  
They’d watch a film in the afternoon. Molly liked Carey Grant movies and he liked watching her face while she watched the screen.

Then when that was over, it was dinner time. She would cook fish for him, or pasta, and the apple pie she made on Sunday disappeared piece by piece.

Too fast, the week drew to an end. 

Physically, he felt well, but he could not imagine facing sobriety without Molly there to care for him. 

On their final day, he couldn’t stop his palms from tingling and his stomach hurt. They went for their walk like usual and then she sat outside on the bench with him, facing the bright blue horizon, not really seeing anything but the pictures in her mind. She’d told him that they spread her father’s ashes out there and she wanted to spend a little time with him. Sherlock held her while they sat. It soothed him--he wasn’t sure if he was comforting her too, or if she was only tolerating him. 

“I think when my parents die, it will be a kind of relief,” he said.

“What?” She looked up at him, startled.

“You were here thinking of your father and how much he impacted your life—all the good he gave to you. It made me think of them, and how they seem terrified of me whenever we speak and how I can’t really blame them for that reaction, but I do.”

“Because of the little boy, Victor?”

“Victor Trevor. I can’t believe you know that name.”

“You said it when you were raving. You told me he died.”

“He drowned in a well.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t remember any of it. My parents shipped me off to a hospital after it happened. There were so many doctors. When I think of him, I can only remember his family’s Irish Setter.”

“You couldn’t have knowingly done anything to him. You were a baby.”

“I was 4.”

“That’s a baby.” She threaded her fingers through his. “It wasn’t your fault it happened.”

“That’s not what I’ve been led to believe.”

“How could they ever think that?”

“Our family has many geniuses--it’s a point of pride, but in that lineage mingles insanity and cruelty. You know first hand I can be cruel.”  
The revelation seemed to make her uncomfortable. She shifted away from him and withdrew her hand from his.

“Do you still see them ever?”

“Last time was seven years ago, Christmas Eve. It was a nightmare. Stony silence for the first hours, then an explosion of howling rage, then we opened presents.They don’t even bother inviting me anymore. Mycroft sends pictures sometimes, when he’s feeling ghoulish.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why do people say that when it’s not their fault?”

“Because they feel terrible and are sorry they can’t do anything about it.”

“It’s an acknowledgment of mutual powerlessness.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Don’t bother feeling terrible. When you move in, we’ll have our own Christmas.”

“I haven’t agreed to move in.” She stood up. Molly began walking to the house. He rose easily and followed her, cursing himself for mentioning Christmas and calling up the memory of him utterly devastating her. 

“Molly Hooper—you said you were considering becoming a mad cat lady, dedicating your final forty or fifty years to collecting tiny felines—how is that better than becoming my roommate?”

“You are the equivalent of fifteen cats.”

“But no litter box.”

“True. Just a margarine tub full of human thumbs.”

He caught up to her in two strides and took her arm again.

“You’re used to that sort of thing. It’s ideal. Besides you’re lonely, and if Tom’s looks are any indication, you’re still not over me—”

“How can I get over you if you’re slipping into my bed?”

“It wouldn’t be every night, just when I’m cold or I can’t sleep. Your respiration is like a metronome, or a soft, ticking clock. It’s very soothing.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you can hear yourself.”

***

They laid down on the couch, his head in her lap. She’d put on a film called “To Catch A Thief,” and he wondered how Carey Grant could be playing a Frenchman without altering his accent at all. Films were strange. She smoothed her hands through his hair and he closed his eyes. It felt indulgent to let her pet him that way--he wasn’t sure who was being more indulged, her or him.

“Molly, why don’t you want to live with me?” 

“I told you--it would be the end to whatever private life I hoped to have.”

“Is that a euphemism for sex?”

“Sherlock,” she pulled her hands away from his hair. “It’s not just sex.”

“But that’s part of it. That was the only thing that recommended Tom at all.”

“Marginally.”

“We can have sex if you need it--”

“No, we will not be having sex. I’m not some kind of monster who can’t control herself around her ill friend. I’m not taking your money or using you for your body or any other horrible thing.”

He wasn’t sure if it would be horrible, but he got her gist. She didn’t want concessions from him. There was no way to trick her into this. He had to tell her the truth. 

“I’m not going to beg you, but I should think it’s obvious how badly I need you. You saved my life once, and now again. Believe me when I tell you this situation is just as grave as the night I asked you to lie for me. Molly Hooper, please move into Baker Street.”

She began to cry in that way that she thought he didn’t see. It was difficult to hear and he wanted to shout at her to stop--she was not the one dying or prostrating herself in hopes of mercy. If anyone should be crying, it should be him, but of course he didn’t do that sort of thing. Only once in recent memory and that was a special case. Perhaps he’d already told her about that when he was in the depths of his fever, just as he’d told her about Victor Trevor and his love of red jelly and how deeply he ached for her--luckily that last one was easy for both of them to play ignorance.

“All right,” She sniffled and then drew in a deep breath. “But I can’t do everything for you and the cleaning, too, because I’ve got work, and maybe I’d like to see Meena face to face more than once a year on her birthday. I’ve just reconnected with Alfie and Paloma, too. I want my family in my life and it will be harder living with you, harder even than before.”

“Paloma likes me.”

“That’s true--Paloma thought you were charming.”

“I’m more subtle when I speak French. It’s the third language I learned--the split second of translation helps me choose words more carefully before I speak. Honestly, if we conversed in Greek I’d seem incredibly reasonable.”

“Well that’s doubtful, isn’t it?”


	9. Chapter 9

Things moved quickly after she relented and agreed to live with Sherlock. They cleaned up the cottage together--he actually unloaded the dishwasher and swept the floor. He said he learned to do it for a case, which was a little unsettling, but at least he’d decided to apply that knowledge in a practical way.  
Alfie drove them back to Baker Street, she in the front seat, Sherlock curled up in the back. She assumed he was sleeping, until during a lull in conversation he piped up.

“Why do you call her Mouse?”

Molly’s face got red. He’d probably already figured it out--she didn’t understand why he was making her endure the story again. Alfie just chuckled.

“Because there was a book we read as children with a character called Molly the Mouse. She tricked the family of cats so her brothers and sisters could escape.”

“How does she trick the cats?” Sherlock sat up.

“All kinds of things--dressed up like a clown, hid in a wheel of cheese, played dead,” Alfie had a huge grin on his face at the memory. “Molly got the nickname because she’d do anything for her cousins. You were so brave--do you remember when that gang of boys was coming after me, and you threw clods of mud at them until they left?”

“Yeah. Please don’t--”

“Tell him the kissing story?”

“What’s the kissing story? Sounds scandalous,” Sherlock asked.

“Our cousin has Downs and there was this older guy who would hang around her. She started calling him her boyfriend. Molly didn’t like that, so 12-years-old, she gets tarted up in a short skirt and sprayed up hair—picks him up. Now my uncle was a police officer, and Molly knew where he patrolled. So she picks this guy up—12-years-old—mind you, he’s in his early 20’s—and when he goes in to kiss her, she hits him with the brick in her purse. So she comes running out of the car, covered in his blood with a torn shirt screaming about this guy to our uncle the cop.” Alfie started laughing so hard, Molly had to take the wheel. It wasn’t a happy story for her to hear, but he was always chuffed to tell it. 

“I’d imagine there wasn’t much of him left to carry off to jail,” Sherlock said.

“No, there was not.” Alfie chortled.

“Was that your first kiss, Molly Hooper?”

Alfie’s laughter died down quickly.

“Was it?” Alfie asked.

“Of course. I was 12.”

“And I’d imagine that’s why you’re uncomfortable in clothes that show off your figure?”

“Something bad does seem to happen every time I get dressed up, yeah.”

“Oh, my Mouse—I never even thought.”

“It’s okay, Alfie. We made sure he didn’t hurt Zu anymore. It’s a long time ago, anyway.” This was the part she had dreaded, the part when Sherlock tore it all down and Alfie would see she wasn’t a hero at all, just a terrified child who’d taken on more than she could handle.  
The uncomfortable silence which descended didn’t alleviate until they were nearly home, when they started talking about the plans for Christmas and what to get the boys. Alfie invited Sherlock, which was sweet and unnecessary. Sherlock’s response surprised her—he was gracious, and made a little joke about Molly being able to stand his company for that long.  
When Alfie dropped them off at Baker Street, Sherlock went up first with his bag. Alfie pulled her aside.

“Tom is definitely out of the picture, then?” Alfie asked.

“Yeah, it was for the best.

“He was dumb as a sack of posts. I don’t know about replacing him with a junkie—”

“Sherlock is just my friend and I’m helping him, but he doesn’t date.”

“I’ve heard of that—like Morrissey?”

“I think so. I try not to pry anymore.”

“Your mum still doesn’t know about Tom?”

“No, I have to be the one to tell her.

“Hurry up, because she’s been plotting out color schemes and favors with Paloma.”

“How? We’ve never even talked about that.”

“You know your mum. I wouldn’t put it past her to have set down payment on a venue.”

Molly felt like crying, but instead she smiled and thanked Alfie for all he’d done. She trudged into the flat, past Mrs. Hudson’s, who must have been out, because she didn’t greet them. Sherlock’s rooms—her rooms—were much worse than she remembered. He sat in his chair with his enormously long legs crossed, eyeing her.

“What’s dead in here?” she asked.

“A few things. And possibly some new things of which I had no prior knowledge.”

“We’ll start cleaning now. Maybe later, if you’ve the energy we can go to my flat. You can take a rest and I’ll get packing.”

“Don’t bother. I can have it done for you. Besides, most of your things are still in boxes from Tom’s.”

“I need to clean if I want my deposit back.” She dropped her bag.

“There are people to do that. It’ll be spotless in a quarter of the time and they can even repaint.”

“If you can do that by mine, why don’t you do it here?”

“Too dangerous. I have sensitive material hidden all over.”

“I still have to decide what I want to bring--some of it’s not worth moving.”

“All those lovely cookery items in your kitchen can come. Leave your bed. I’ll buy you the next size up. I like to spread out.”

“I want my bed. That’s an antique headboard!”

“It’s not--it’s a very good fake, you probably got it from that shop in Leeds, didn’t you? Never mind. I’ll get you a real antique, Edwardian. Something Jane Austin died in.”

“No. I’ll keep my own bed. The other things I can take or leave.”

“Thank god you’re not bringing that pink and gold striped chair. That looked like you stole it from a brothel waiting room.”

“I’d imagine at the brothels you go to, they don’t make you wait. You’d drive away the other customers with all your insights.” Molly hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but she had. Sherlock’s eyes were wide  
and he seemed embarrassed.

“I don’t--that’s not.” He sighed. “Where shall I start cleaning?”

“Let’s start with the places you’ve hidden drugs.”

***

By the time the sun set on Baker Street, the fridge had been emptied, the floors had been mopped, and the cupboards had all been cleaned. Three dead mice, part of a boar and the remains of a small vole were tastefully buried in Mrs. Hudson’s bins. 

Molly had a harrowing moment when she almost served herself coffee with poisoned sugar cubes, which led to a frank discussion with Sherlock about keeping poison and other scientific equipment out of the kitchen entirely.

They had also amassed an upsetting stockpile of illicit and prescription drugs--a shoe box full, enough to kill her new roommate several times over even if the sugar cubes didn’t get him.  
She sat on the bathroom floor, the box by the toilet. Sherlock stood over her. Even though she’d managed to get filthy cleaning, he still looked pristine. 

“You better not flush those--Mrs. Hudson’s plumbing can’t withstand the infusion.”

“What else can I do?”

“Sell them--buy Alfie’s sons a jet ski for Christmas.”

“Please tell me this is everything, Sherlock.”

“It’s everything. I promise you.”

“This is too much to dump. I’ll call John. We have to break the living arrangements to him anyway.”  
Sherlock offered her his hand. She pulled herself up using his leverage. He looked at her for a moment, just holding her in his arms.

“Take it down to Mrs. Hudson’s to wait on John. I can’t be near it. You’ve got to text him, you still have my phone.”

Molly nodded and went downstairs with the box. She knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

“Martha--it’s Molly. Can I ask you a favor?”

Mrs. Hudson came out, a smile on her face. She nearly hugged Molly, but Molly shook her head. “No, that wouldn’t be nice. I’ve just been cleaning Sherlock’s fridge.”

“Oh, my, no. There’d be some incriminating DNA passing between us, dear, and I’ve got enough troubles.”

“Sorry to add to them. Can you hold this until John comes to get it? I’m trying to help Sherlock and this is a box of temptation.” Molly handed it over. Martha peeked. Her eyes bulged.

“I might have to dip in here. Running low on my herbal soothers.”

“I certainly didn’t hear you say that. There is something else we ought to talk about, though. I’m planning on moving in to John’s old room to help Sherlock stay sober. He’s more on track when he’s got a friend living with him, at least that’s how he feels.”

“That’s lovely, Molly. I’ll be happy to have you. No paint though, and do mind the wall paper--it’s vintage.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock had done quite a bit to damage the vintage wallpaper, but she supposed he had very different rules. Molly went back upstairs, empty-handed. When she got inside, Sherlock wasn’t in the front room. Quickly, she went through the house but couldn’t find him. She went to the bathroom door and knocked. 

“Sherlock?”

He didn’t answer. She pushed open the door to find him soaking in the tub, a washcloth over his eyes. Molly fell to her knees beside him, and took his shoulders in her hands.

“Sherlock--tell me what you took.” 

The washcloth fell with a splash and he looked at her with drowsy, angry eyes.

“I was taking a nap...and a bath. That’s all.”

“Why didn’t you answer me?”

“It’s been a long, taxing day. I thought I was dreaming.”

“I’m sorry.” She tried not to look down at his body, but she couldn’t help glancing. Then it became a challenge not to stare. He didn’t seem to notice.

“Don’t be. I need help washing my hair.” He handed her a black bottle of shampoo. 

She popped open the top--it smelled better than the perfume she bought in Paris and probably cost twice as much. Before she thought about what she was doing, Molly took the shower head down and began rinsing his curls. 

“Is that nice?” she asked.

“Yes.” He sighed. 

The soft, pretty noises he made had her smiling.

“I’ve never been to a brothel.”

Abruptly, she stopped spraying his hair and began fumbling to keep from dropping the nozzle.

“I’m sorry--what are you talking about?”

“You made a joke before, about waiting in line at a brothel. I don’t pay for sex. I thought maybe because of Irene you thought I did.”

“We don’t need to talk about this--” 

“I want to. Why did you stop?”

“Sorry?” She got control of the shower head and started spraying his hair again. When it was thoroughly saturated, she squeezed out a dollop of shampoo and lathered his hair.

“I’m shy with people I don’t know,” he muttered. 

She smiled, scrubbing his scalp gently. 

“I’ve never known you to be shy.”

“Because I’m not shy around you.”

He went quiet. She finished rinsing the soap out of his hair, the sound of the droplets hitting the water louder for the surrounding silence. 

“I have to text John. You can manage now.” Molly scrambled to her feet and got out of the bathroom. She closed the door on his pithy reply.


	10. Chapter 10

Molly had hoped that when John got there, he would volunteer to relieve her so she could go to her flat and sleep in her own bed. However, John refused to come upstairs--he just took the drugs and left. She wasn’t sure how to repair the rift between them. She took a shower and Sherlock gave her a t shirt to sleep in--no bottoms. She had no other clean pajamas, something he knew well. There was only one bed, and he was already under the covers when she got out of the bathroom. Carefully, she got into bed with him. He immediately snatched her into his arms.

***  
Her hair was still wet--he had to tell her in the morning that wasn’t acceptable, ruining his pillows like that, and as a doctor she should have known how much that would increase her chances of catching cold.

He decided not to tell her, but by then he already had and he was sure it would make her want to leave, but instead she chuckled a little.

“My hair dryer is at my house and you don’t have one.”

“I’ll buy you a sonic hair dryer in the morning--it will take you two minutes to get ready.”

“Those cost the price of a jet engine. No.”

The other Molly, not the one he lied next to, but the one in his mind that he imagined when he needed calm medical advice stood in her lab coat just beyond the bed.

At this stage in opiate withdrawal, you will find yourself falling into paranoia and depression. Depression manifests itself as boredom for you.

“I can’t be bored when I’m touching you, Molly.”

“Thank you?”

He shouldn’t have said that part out loud.

That’s right, you shouldn’t, but it’s good you’re not bored. You may be replacing one addiction with another, and given the fact that you have difficulty with adult relationships, this could end badly. I suggest a therapist to guide you through the pitfalls.

“Not happening.”

“What’s not happening?”

“I was going to ask you to take your shirt off so I could feel your skin against me.”

That isn’t appropriate. “That isn’t appropriate.” The Mollys said in unison.

“Not happening.”

John hated him and Molly would soon fall in line and there was no way to fix any of this because he was born with an insidious mind that took all his effort to turn from nefarious deeds. He could unravel schemes because he could imagine them, he could outplay criminals because he was just as viscous and he’d hurt anyone he’d ever loved through his ineptitude. He’d hurt Molly so much and this was a continuation of hurting her even if it felt like pleasure and love because he couldn’t please her or give her the things she wanted from him. There was too much---  
You’re falling into a shame spiral spurred on by opiate withdrawal. You are beginning to have paranoid delusions. Talk to Molly.

“I am.”

“You’re what?”

Talk to the real Molly.

“I’m suffering from paranoia--”

“That happens with withdrawal. It’s very common.”

“Yes, you said. I know it’s common. Please tell me that Moriarty is dead.”

“When did I? Okay. Moriarty is dead. I examined him when they first brought him down from the roof and after he was declared dead, I dissected his corpse. He is very, very dead.”

“Can I read your report?”

“Of course. Do you want to come to Bart’s tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow. I have to see about a few details for your moving. I’ll come when there’s time--I’ll bring you lunch. Don’t worry, I won’t make it.  
She laughed, and ran her fingers through his hair. “How is your hair already dry?”

“Superior genetics.”

Was that funny or mean? It implied her genetics were inferior, which wasn’t accurate--her father had been much older when he passed and that after a life of fried food and her mother seemed vibrant and healthy, at least ten years younger than her actual age.

He could feel Molly smiling against his cheek. It was okay--it was all fine--she knew it was a joke.

“I can teach you to make a sandwich. It’s really just stacking things.They sell a children’s toy you can practice on.”

“Molly Hooper--are you teasing me?”

She’s not teasing you. She hates you. This is all a prelude to an exit. 

“I am teasing. Tell me what else is worrying you.”

“John will never forgive me.”

“I’m the one he’s upset with--not you. There’s nothing to forgive and John is an incredible man. He’s forgiven you much more already, because he loves you.”

“People love each other. I’m not people.”

“You are.”

Serial killers are people. Genocidal maniacs. Magnusson was technically a person. It doesn’t mean you’re like John or Molly.  
Molly sighed, and made a soft cooing noise. He pulled her tighter.

Irene stood on the other side of the bed--not the real Irene, who was misbehaving in United Arab Emirates under the name Lucille Fay LeSeaur--but the dream Irene who showed up in his imagination when he least wanted her.

‘They sell little blue pills that can make you a reliable lover if you’d just swallow your pride. Although, she’s a lovely, sweet little thing, isn’t she? You might be able to run that race on your own legs, if you could get her to play. I can’t imagine her in leather, though. Doesn’t have the sense of command to pull it off, does she? If only you liked the damsel in distress. It doesn’t work to have two damsels.’

“Are you hallucinating?” Molly asked.

“No—no more than usual. What I mean is, they’re not really hallucinations-- I externalize certain concepts and they manifest as people. When I’m agitated it becomes more difficult to parse. John is reason, deduction. I imagine talking to him and it helps me work. Mycroft is my punitive voice. Irene is sex.”

“Did the whips and chains start with Irene?”

Irene leaned closer to the bed--‘That’s curious, isn’t it? You just confessed you self-induce delusions and she wants to know about whips and chains.’  
He shook his head, not letting himself respond to his fantasy.

“No, but Irene was the perfect manifestation,” he said.

“I looked at her website.” Molly sounded timid. “Went down a bit of a rabbit hole. It was just research.”

Irene leered. ‘I’m sure he’d be happy to help with any fieldwork, darling.’  
“Yes, he would.”

“Who would what?”

“Dr. Zweig—I had a doctor—one of the better ones who treated me the second time I got clean. He thought I learned through visualization more than other people, which is why I needed to imagine the person in full when I had discourse in my mind. I don’t learn from others--I learn them, store their behavior, sometimes mimic it back. Imagining people is also my way to control human interaction—move people around, reduce their complexity to salient characteristics while still maintaining their unique input. Make them less terrifying.”

“Terrifying?”

“You know the depths of humanity, Molly Hooper. Terrifying.”

“Am I there in your head?”

“You’re my medical expert. You represent soothing advice that I only sometimes take.”

“What am I telling you now?”

Talk to Molly.

“Talk to Molly.”

“Good advice.”


	11. Chapter 11

Molly wore some more of Paloma’s designer cast offs to work because she didn’t have time to stop at the flat before her shift started. It made her feel terrible when she spilled brain matter on her second-hand Stella McCartney slacks. 

No one asked her about her trip. She hadn’t taken a vacation in four years, but no one seemed to notice she had been gone except Greg.  
He’d been the one to do a preliminary drugs sweep on the flat while she and Sherlock were away at the cottage. She didn’t have the heart to tell him how much he missed. During a coffee break, Greg sidled up to her.

“How does Tom feel about you moving in with Sherlock? I can’t imagine he’d be pleased.”

“We broke up, before any of this started. I still haven’t told my mother.”

“Tricky, that. I always thought he was a bit of a bog brain.”

Molly giggled into her coffee cup, embarrassed. All those insults about Tom had been meant kindly, in a twisted sort of way, but they didn’t feel kind. “Why didn’t anyone mention it?”

“Trying to be nice. That and I thought your genes could do the heavy lifting when it came to the kids.”

Molly wrinkled her nose and shook her head as she took another sip.

“Does this mean you’re dating Sherlock now?” Greg asked.

“No, we’re just roommates. Besides, you know he doesn’t see me that way—you were there at Christmas.”

“That was bad.”

“Extraordinarily bad. I haven’t bared my shoulders in public since.”

“Well they’re fine shoulders anyway.”

“That’s the oddest compliment I’ve ever gotten, but I’ll take it.”

Greg laughed, which was what she’d been after, but she felt like she’d been lying to him—playing detached and responsible when it came to Sherlock when she felt neither.

***

Sherlock sat in the pink and gold striped chair, staring at the empty space where Molly had been two weeks ago. Instead of Molly naked, with her long hair spilling down her back like a waterfall, there sat a pile of boxes. While she’d been at work he’d packed her things, just as he had when he decamped her from Tom’s house. Better to let her think he had a network of phantom movers instead of the truth. He’d never let strangers touch her things--not when there was so much to learn.  
Her flat contained a mind-numbing amount of information about her. The pile of records that obviously had belonged to her father which she never listened to but couldn’t throw away. He liked British bands from the 60’s—the Trogs the Zombies, the Beatles and American soul music like Otis Redding. Inexplicably, there was a single album by Simply Red. Happily, Sherlock had a record player, so they could stop taking up space and start getting use--except for the Simply Red which he scratched to pieces before returning it to its jacket.  
Most of her furniture was only good for kindling. Someone in her family had taken up the hobby of reupholstery and fancied themselves rather good--bets were on her mother because he’d overheard Molly talking about her mother’s obsession with house sales and her thwarted ambition of being an interior designer. If they’d been fixed up by her father, Molly never would have agreed to part with them, but since her mother was still alive and had likely moved onto a different hobby, Molly felt no responsibility to keep them. The couch and the chairs might have been good, had her mother more skill and knowledge. Something told him they were practice pieces Molly had saved from the trash.

Sherlock found a letter Tom had sent that she’d yet to open, but kept at the bottom of a stack of utility bills. He opened the letter and found it contained an itemized list for threads, fabric and bobbins associated with the wedding dress his mother had started to make. Sherlock wrote out a check and stuck it in a stamped envelope, after writing Gormless Nitwit in the “for” section.   
There were photo albums that had countless pictures of Meena, a flip book that aged her from girl to adult woman. Sherlock found another photo album with images of Gabriel Miller in it—the lost boy wore a long black coat and had dark, curly hair. He towered over teenaged Molly and she grinned up at him--her hair in a smooth plait to the side and a little ribbon choker on her neck. In fact, the Ur boyfriend looked remarkably like Sherlock had at 17. It made him feel less special to know he wasn’t the origin of her type.  
Molly had a fascinating book collection. The rows saw the changes in her mindset. On the bottom were textbooks from University, then world politics, moving on to classic romances like Wuthering Heights, contemporary romances, relationship and self-help. Molly seemed to think of herself in need of healing and improvement. The Book of Grieving, When Things End, How to Spot a Sociopath and oh dear, The Little Big Book of S&M. Rather than hiding that one in a box, he’d tucked it into his coat pocket.  
All of Molly’s clothes—save for that black dress with the silver bar at the top—could have safely been binned. Her clothes came from thrift shops and Oxfam, because she couldn’t see spending money on new things that would get dirty with her work at the lab. She also had a sense of obligation to buy used—he’d seen a book on fast fashion on her shelf, which meant her heart bled at the thought of retail. Lastly, Molly was thrifty—she grew up middle class but had poor relations. Every extra cent her family made was stretched to help her cousins. All that put together, and the last dress she bought probably cost less than a bag of crisps.

Molly hadn’t decided to try to be pretty or stylish—she’d settled on quirky. Quirky was the last resort of the plain. He would have to explain to her that despite her perceived flaws, she really should try to look nice once in a while. Shredding her clothes would be a good start—but he knew she wouldn’t understand it as an act of mercy.  
Instead he folded all her horrible garments and stacked them in boxes. Her jewelry was cheap and sentimental—drug store earrings, jelly bracelets and a necklace made of plastic straws—garbage, but she’d kept them for at least fifteen years by the manufacture date stamped on the back of one of the pieces, so he packed that, too.  
He abhorred sentiment, but all of Molly’s valuables were worthless, save for nostalgic purposes. If she’d been there, he’d have badgered her into leaving most of these things, only keeping her baking supplies, china, pink skull-patterned sheets and excellent coffee machine. For that reason, he was glad she was at work. To live with him, she was already giving up so very much. He didn’t want to force her to abandon more of herself for his notions of decorum--because it was decorum. Her possessions embarrassed him for their sentimentality--to walk into her rooms was to explore her naked heart. The vulnerability made him shudder.

By two in the afternoon, he had everything packed away, hidden in discreet brown boxes.   
At 2:15, someone rang the bell. Sherlock buzzed him up. Forty-three seconds later, there was a soft knock on the door.

Sherlock opened the door to see John stood on the threshold, two cups of coffee in his hand. John pushed one of the cups toward him--it was from his favorite cafe, two sugars.

“A peace offering?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s just coffee.”

Sherlock took his cup and then stepped out of the way. John walked into the dismantled household.

“For the record, I think this is a terrible idea.” John sighed.

“It could only have been you or Molly, and she seemed like the more logical choice.”

“You could stay with Mary and me until you’re better.”

“John, you’re about to become a father and you want to let a recovering junkie move in? I’m a dangerous man to be around when sober, and should not be allowed near small children for extended periods of time.”

“Fair enough, but Molly is in love with you and you’ve just got out of a relationship. So has she.”

“My relationship was a sham concocted to infiltrate an office building.”

“Okay--”

“And everyone knows Tom was an idiot. I need someone to hold me accountable. She doesn’t want anything from me.”

“What about the ring?”

“I made her take it when I was vomiting and shaking because I couldn’t stand the idea of someone helping me. In that moment I needed to pay her to put a fig leaf on my pride. After I got better, she gave the ring back to me. You know me--you know that is absolutely the type of man I am.”  
John shook his head. He looked worried, the creases on his forehead deep. 

“I don’t want to see either of you hurt, that’s all.”

“There’s more to it though--Mary dislikes Molly. Why?”

“Molly could have ended my suffering with a word.”

“I could’ve, too, but Mary forgives me. She championed me when you didn’t want to speak to me again. Why?

“Maybe because Molly saw me out in the world and kept silent.”

“If she told, Mycroft would have had her killed.”

“Your own brother?”

“Yes--you know this already. We weren’t raised so much as hatched. I tried to bargain for her and for you, but he was intractable.”

“You never said that.”

“It was a failure, and you know I don’t like to dwell on those.”

“Right--I just thought I never entered your mind.”

“You’re part of my mind--you’re who I spoke to when I needed to function. Naturally, I tried to protect you. Weren’t you at your wedding? I thought we’d covered all of this.”

“We didn’t--but it makes sense.”

“Good--I’m sorry, by the way. I’ll keep saying that until you believe me. Now--Mary. Mary is clever and rational. She has no real reason to oppose Molly, especially given her proven loyalty to me. Is there any other reason?””

“I don’t know. There’s the Tom thing, but she’s not petty. I can think of one other thing, but there’s no way Mary could know.”

“Let’s not underestimate your wife. What is it?”

“The night of your funeral--Molly was there of course. She looked devastated. I actually was devastated and drank to excess. She took me home after everyone else left because I was utterly wrecked. I was so drunk I could hardly stand. When she put me to bed and she was leaning over me, I made a pass at her.”

“A pass? What did you do? Was it a verbal suggestion or did you touch her?”

“A verbal suggestion?”

“Yes, was it a verbal suggestion or did you grab your friend’s breasts while she was trying to keep you from aspirating?”

“It wasn’t-I wouldn’t do that. I kissed her. She turned me down as gently as she could--it was Molly--you know how she is. We’ve never spoken about it.”

“How long?”

“What do you mean?”

“How long did you kiss her?”

“I don’t know.” John gave him an exaggerated shrug, clearly exasperated. 

Sherlock steepled his fingers. 

“You think that’s the root of Mary’s opposition?”

“Maybe. She barely knows Molly. If she finds out I’m helping you move her in, I might have to move my things back in, too.”  
Sherlock nearly snapped that Molly belonged to him and John could keep his things where they were--but that would have undermined his entire argument that Molly was the best choice to keep him sober. Irene appeared just beyond John’s shoulder, wearing nothing but her battle armor.

‘If you could be a little more open minded, John and Molly together with you--’

“Do shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” John looked at him askance.


	12. Chapter 12

Molly felt dead on her feet. On the tube ride back to Baker street, she couldn’t help imagining her legs turning to necrotic tissue and her own slow decomposition. For some reason, she found this daydream oddly relaxing.

Thoughts of her mother intruded on the peaceful scene of her eventual disintegration. She’d been thinking of Caroline Hooper all day, and what she’d say about the broken engagement. Her mother had been the only one to really like Tom. For some reason, Molly couldn’t stop thinking of the night her mother caught her sneaking in after her first night seeing Gabriel. 

“Molly Aideen, I know you’re not a virgin anymore. You’re coming down with me tomorrow to get tested. You’re not throwing away your smarts on a boy whose shooting poison into his veins. I take care of AIDS patients--they rot away from the inside out. Is that what you want?”  
That had been terrible--but the worst part had been seeing her father standing in the hall, unable to say anything to her.  
Mom fought--dad would just carry his hurt inside. The next day Molly got a pregnancy and STD scan, even though she’d never so much as kissed Gabe. It hadn’t seemed the time to argue.  
When Molly got to Baker Street, she didn’t go up. Instead she went to the cafe downstairs from the flat, ordered a cup of tea and called her mother. 

Caroline picked up on the first ring.

“Molly--it’s so good to hear from you. I’ve got loads to tell you--all good.”

“That’s wonderful, mum. Is it all right if I go first? It’s not so good.”

“Of course, darling.”

Molly closed her eyes. “Tom and I broke up. I gave him back the ring. I’m sorry.”

“That’s--Darling, I was going to try to act surprised, but Alfie called me about it last week. He said you used the cottage, and told me about your sick friend. He said you were worried I’d be angry, but I’m not. Tom was a fool, wasn’t he? That ring was a disgrace. It looked like a bit of ice stained with petrol.”

“You didn’t like Tom? You’ve never held your tongue about anything concerning me--why would you keep quiet about this?”

“Molly, you’re an only child and I’d really like grandchildren. I assumed when it all fell apart, I’d move to London and take care of the little ones while you worked.”

“Mum, did you hit your head recently?”

“Very funny. Now listen to my news. I’ve just taken up pottery and it’s going very, very well.”

Molly didn’t bother to tell her about moving in with Sherlock--it would just be confusing. Besides, she’d adopted a new hobby in her retirement and Molly didn’t want to dampen any excitement about  
that. This was the third thing after upholstery and stained glass. No wonder she was hungry to care for some grandchildren--retirement had become an endless series of disappointments. Her mother needed to nurture--chairs, windows, and clay pots could not compete.

It began to rain. Molly finished her tea and her phone call, then went out of the café into the drizzle. She turned the collar of her coat up against the weather. Across the street stood a pretty young woman watching her—she pretended to talk on the phone, but the woman certainly had her eye on everything Molly was doing.  
She considered not going up, but Sherlock expected her and she still had his phone. Molly unlocked the door to 221 B. Violin music drifted downstairs—familiar, but she couldn’t place the tune. Maddeningly, it was on the tip of her tongue. She tromped up the steps.

Sherlock stood by the window, playing his violin. He wore his dark slacks and black shirt and she wondered if he planned to go out again.

“There’s a woman across the street observing you.” He continued playing as he spoke.

“One of Mycroft’s?”

“I’m not sure. She looks familiar.”

“Not sure? I’ve never heard you say that before.” She took off her wet coat and hung it by the door. “What are you playing?”

“It’s by Shigeru Umebayashi, for a film. Before you ask, I haven’t seen the film and don’t remember what it’s called so do be quiet.”  
Molly clapped her hands together. “In the Mood for Love—that’s what it was. I couldn’t remember.”  
His bow screeched to a stop against the strings and he set the violin down.

“Not today. John and I moved your things in and I managed to get your security deposit back from your landlord. He’s a rather unctuous man, isn’t he?”

“Oh, that’s a bit mean.” Molly would have said overly familiar.

“I’m a bit mean.” He took all of three steps and already he stood in her personal space. She wasn’t sure if they were meant to hug a greeting, or if he was going to tell her a secret. Negotiating her interactions with him had become even more confusing in a single day. She looked up at him, her nose nearly bumping into his chest.

“I’ve got unpacking, haven’t I?”

“Some, yes. The kitchen is now designated for food alone—as we discussed—and I’ve placed your cookery items in there. Mrs. Hudson has been gracious enough to let me use the flat downstairs for experimentation. I may need you to accompany me down there.”

“That’s fine—thank you.” It seemed strange to thank him for keeping poisons out of their kitchen.

“I didn’t bring your furniture—except for the bed and the dresser for your clothes. John took the whorehouse chair for his baby’s room.”

“Do you have to call it that? It’s not nice to sex workers or that baby—or the chair.”

“If we’re to live together, you’ll have to shed your expectations of me being nice to chairs and oily men who might have installed a camera in your shower.”

“Please tell me the landlord didn’t do that—”

“He didn’t, but he looked as though he thought of it every second of the day.” He looked to the side. “Stop it.”

“Who’s here?”

“Just us, in fact—Mrs. Hudson’s gone on a dinner date so there’s no one downstairs either.”

“No, I mean here,” She touched her forehead.

“Oh. Mycroft.”

“Have you done something to be angry at yourself?”

He looked guilty, vulnerability flashing behind the eyes.

”Why?” he asked.

“Because you said he was punitive.”

“Should I show you my arms?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I think you hurt yourself in lots of other ways, too.”

He opened his mouth as if he would speak, and tilted his head at her, then sighed.

“Everything’s in John’s bedroom. About your clothes, have you ever considered looking nice every once in a while?”

Molly didn’t know why it hurt her when he said these things, because he always said these things and they should’ve lost their power, yet her smile fell flat and she had to fight the urge to flee.  
She walked away to John’s room that was now her room. It was separated from the rest of the flat by a little stairway. Molly was grateful she had a place with which to escape. Even the small bit of distance meant something, and she could go up to her own bedroom without disturbing Sherlock.  
He trailed after her, still talking. “If you dressed better, people would cease to ignore you the way they do.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” She opened the door to her room, which was larger than her old apartment. Mrs. Hudson’s wallpaper choice for the room was just as mad as the rest of the place; a shimmery beige with black scrolling, the same pattern but opposite colors as the Victorian print in the living room and a brown floral with oversized blue roses.  
He’d stacked all of her boxes into one corner even though the room was capacious. The boxes nearly touched the ceiling.

“Where is my bed?”

“Behind the boxes. I didn’t throw it out like I wanted to. You should thank me. ” 

“How am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

“If you’re not feeling industrious, you can get in with me. Or you can just throw the boxes away. I’ve been through everything you have and it’s all abysmal.”

“I like the way I look.”

“No you don’t. You cover yourself in layers and sink to the back of every photo. You hate the way you look just as much as I do.”

“I have had a very long day--”

“You’re missing the point. The only reason people permit me to do what I do is my appearance. I wear things that cost three times as much as everyone else, I’m tall and I bother with my hair. There’s no reason they should let me any place, Molly Hooper. I made up my credentials up front and have continued to fudge them ever since. If I weren’t handsome enough or well-heeled enough or let’s be frank, white enough, my intellect would only repel. As it is, I barely get away with being me.”

“Sherlock--Stop!” She shouted, her voice so loud it surprised herself. Even he looked slightly cowed. “We need boundaries.”

“I don’t care for those.”

“I know, but I need them if we’re to share this flat. My clothes, my appearance are a boundary now.”

“Can I say positive things--nudge you in the correct direction?”

“No.”

“Nothing then. I see. Well, your work clothes and your sleepwear are on the top of the pile.”

“Could you fetch them down for me? Bit over my head.”

He walked over to the stack of boxes and standing on his tip toes, eased a box delicately off the pile. Sherlock handed her down one marked “SOFT,” in neat, black marker.

“Soft?”

“They’re organized by texture. I’ll help you sort it out.”

He stood there waiting as she opened the box. Right on top he’d placed her favorite pajamas-pink flannel bottoms and a thin cotton matching top. It felt funny, him watching her that way in silence. It took all her effort not to tell him to sod off. 

“Your shampoo is in the bathroom, along with your special soaps and your hand cream.”

She stood up, hugging the clothes to her chest. “Let me take my shower.”  
Molly went back down the creaky steps, through the living room and into the bathroom.  
All of her things were neatly set up on the ledge by the tub. He’d even placed her toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. She shed her dirty clothes that smelled of chemicals and death, and went into the shower.

As she went through the motions of getting herself clean, she couldn’t help thinking of what he’d said. He’d sliced her open with his words. Sherlock had always done that, but now it was to be relentless. Manipulation was one of his many skills, but she didn’t know if he had been trying to manipulate her--to do what exactly? If it had been an appeal to her reason, maybe he kept belaboring a point that caused him guilt. Or maybe he was trying to remake her into someone like Irene Adler?  
She’d done an enormous amount of research on Adler, whose real name was actually Jennifer Pokey. Once upon a time, Jennifer Pokey had braces and played the clarinet in High School band. She’d been a seemingly normal girl. Then something happened and Irene Adler was born--an impossibly glamorous creature who hopped from scandal to scandal. Irene Adler didn’t have sex, she had sexual escapades. In one of her interviews, Adler said her persona was the reality of who she was inside. Molly understood that--even sympathized--but that wasn’t her life. She would have felt in costume at all times. 

Trying to parse out his intentions made her tired--so tired, that when she finished her shower she did not have the energy to blow dry her hair. Instead, she put it in a hasty French braid. He was going to hate it, she thought, which made her smile at her reflection.

***  
Molly fell asleep in his bed by design--not only had he blocked access to her own bed, but he’d hidden all of her sheets, just in case she’d decided to dig herself out. As he held her tight to him, he felt nourished by their closeness.

She wasn’t his doctor any more, and all the contrivances that status had created were gone. Now when she held him it was only because she’d chosen to hold him. After they’d eaten she’d let him curl up on her lap.

It was terrifying. 

Tomorrow he would help her situate the room and then she could sleep upstairs far, far away from him if she chose. His clinginess would end when the last of the withdrawal dissipated and they could be cohorts. Chums? He could get back to solving cases, because the excitement, the game--all of that. It would all be like it was again and he’d become obsessed with solving crimes instead of obsessed with Molly Hooper. 

Just have sex with her. The sooner you do, the sooner you’ll be back to yourselves. Imaginary John said, from his perch on the headboard.

“Yes, and that worked swimmingly for you--you’re married with the specter of fatherhood bearing down on you.”

“What?” Molly asked

“Nothing, darling, go back to sleep.” Sherlock kissed her forehead.

Did you just call her darling? John asked.

“It’s all right. She won’t remember in the morning.”

That’s not the point.


	13. Chapter 13

Meena sliced up the last cardboard box like a surgeon. Molly couldn’t believe how quickly they’d set up her room after struggling for a week with Sherlock’s help and making almost no headway. She and Meena tackled the remaining unpacking and finished in under two hours. Molly was certain Sherlock had been repacking her things while she was at work and she still had no idea what he’d done with her bedding. No matter. She and Meena planned to go out to the shops in the afternoon.

“I really think you should lean into the Victorian thing since you can’t get rid of the wallpaper. There’s a great shop I buy from, they do terrific reproductions and custom stuff. I know we could make up those screens you talked about so you can block off the sleeping area, and I can get you a discount,” Meena said.

“That would be brilliant. Do you think a peacock feather pattern on the fabric would be insane in here? It’s period specific but there’s so much bloody pattern.” Molly stopped sweeping the hardwood floor for a moment and looked over at Meena.

“I’d go with a neutral for the screen, maybe play up texture. We could do a peacock pattern on the bed--I can buy that headboard from you, it would be perfect for the bedroom I’m doing for Lucinda’s daughter--I’m thinking something elaborate for the theme, with black wrought iron.”

“Are you saying my headboard is better suited to a 10-year-old’s room?”

“I think I am saying that.” 

“Well, I’ll give it to you for free. I really appreciate your helping me.”

Meena cocked her hip and fluffed her black hair. “Don’t thank me. I love this. Now’s a good chance to do everything fresh, really reflect your tastes. You’ve been living like a uni student too long with that cast-off furniture. This is gorgeous space and all yours. I mean, look at that window.”  
The window was legitimately gorgeous, once Molly had taken down the dirty Venetian blinds. It stretched for half the room, with a wooden box seat and leaded glass panels around the edges that cast rainbows on the opposite wall.

“I was thinking white sheers for that, and then curtains that extend past the window to cover the brown paper a bit. Floor length. Do you think that will look nice?” Molly asked, suddenly insecure about her   
idea.

Meena nodded, excited. “That would be perfect. And in the daytime, you have your little book nook. I think we can even set in the bookshelves you wanted along the edge before the seat meets the window. My carpenter is very good. I can take the measurements to her and have them for you by next month. She can do them in between jobs.I can make those and cushions for the seat. I have a whole ream of fabric leftover from that house I did with all the Gothic touches. What do you think of peacock blue for the cushions? I have loads of that floating around.”

“What about pink? I love pink.”

“Yeah, pink could work. The right shade--slightly peachy--yeah, that would be perfect. I’d have to buy it.”

“That’s fine. It’s what I want.”

“Do you mind if I take a shower before we go out. You know how I am with sweating.”

Molly put the broom in the closet. “You’re no sweatier than other people.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I won’t argue with you.” Molly went to the bed and picked up a black, jersey dress Meena had thrown there. “You can wear this. Brand new. I’ve never had the guts to put it on.”  
Meena looked over the dress. “That’s a plunging neckline.”

“You have got the neckline for it.”

“I do have, don’t I.”

***

They went down to Sherlock’s flat. Molly called for him, but he didn’t answer. Meena went into the bathroom, completely non-plussed. 

Molly walked around the apartment and found his absence slightly worrying--normally she knew where he was at all times, but he’d been utterly silent about his Saturday morning plans, even while she talked about her shopping trip with Meena. He’d sulked a bit, but hadn’t seemed more sullen than usual. A pang went through her stomach, and she worried he’d done something to act out because she had not included him.

Molly went into Sherlock’s perfectly neat bedroom. He’d made his bed--she found it interesting that he kept his bedroom so tidy, but ignored the rest of the house entirely. She slid her hand in between the mattress and the box spring--when they’d gone through the house, he’d had a trove of drugs there. Her hand met with something hard. She grasped the object and pulled it out--a black riding crop. 

Around the handle was wrapped a piece of paper that read--

Shame on you, Molly Hooper.

Hastily, she shoved it back from whence it came. He’d expected her to shake down his room from time to time looking for drugs--they’d discussed it--but even here he couldn’t let her have the last word. Some part of him had to assert that he knew she’d be there, and that he was far more clever. The game of hiding notes for her to find was probably doing more to keep him sober rather than her ability to actually suss any contraband

She opened his bedside table drawer, which was empty aside from a pair of reading glasses and a book with a pink cover--Love Poems by Pablo Neruda. Intrigued, Molly opened the book to find the pages had been cut out to provide a hiding place for cigarettes. On top of the cigarettes was another note--

None of your business, Molly Hooper.

She scooped all of them out except for one and shoved the cigarettes in her pocket to dispose of later. 

“Molly,” Meena called through the door. “Come out and give us a look.”

“Surely.”

Molly came out of his room to see Meena standing in the living room, wearing the black dress.

“Meena, that looks really sexy on you,” Molly said as she walked in to find Sherlock and Janine also standing there. Janine looked at her with relief.

“Oh, this is Molly!” Janine looked like she was about to run over and hug her. 

Molly walked over with her hand extended, suddenly self-conscious. Janine shook it.

“We met at John’s wedding. You gave me a safety pin.”

“That’s right,” Janine said, but Molly could tell she clearly did not remember her.

Molly looked up at Sherlock, who seemed to be very amused with himself. He grinned at her and winked.

“We were just going out to get more linens. I seem to have lost all my bedding in the move,” Molly said directly to him. His grin seemed to widen.

“You’ve done wonders with the place,” Janine said.

“We’ve planned out a whole thing for the bedroom upstairs--it’s really exciting,” Meena added.

“That’s lovely for you. Well, I just wanted to pop in and meet you, Molly,” Janine said. 

Molly thought she might add that they’d already met, but didn’t want to make the moment last any longer. They said goodbyes, and Sherlock walked Janine downstairs. When they were out of earshot, Meena smiled with all her teeth showing.

“Oh, she wasn’t happy to see me steppin’ out of the bathroom. I must look really good in this dress.”

“Yeah. What’s it mean that seeing me was such a relief?”

“It means she thinks you have a hot girlfriend.”

“Oh right.” Molly laughed. “Well, I couldn’t do better, could I?”

Molly wanted to ask Sherlock what he was playing at with Janine, but she didn’t want to do it in front of Meena. Even though Meena was her best friend, she hadn’t told her that she was sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, or that their relationship had become close in ways that made her feel uneasy. Molly still had feelings for him, no matter how she’d tried to get over them. She couldn’t explain it--and she didn’t want to watch Meena’s face grow more and more disappointed as she tried.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock kept his eyes on Mary as she and John swayed on the dance floor. She hadn’t begun showing yet, he expected that would happen soon. Her gown was white, and looked like it was made of spun sugar. John’s face showed he was spellbound by her. Mary looked like the angel on top of the Christmas tree. Sherlock had felt something about the two of them, about the beauty and promise of their future. He’d put it in the song, but just like everything, the song wasn’t up to the challenge.

There was something in that moment, their wedding dance, that stuck out to him. He rewound it again in his mind. John and Mary--Molly looking sad because she never had a song written for her, never thought she could look at her husband the way Mary looked at hers--wrong. Not the important part.

No, the important part was the older woman in the green silk suit with the faint scar on her cheekbone who recorded the whole dance on her phone--a plus one, not invited. She came with Arnold Salter, who was easily ten years younger, and vain. Salter worked at Bart’s in some indeterminate capacity--in billing or something. John and Mary had argued over inviting him--he’d been an acquaintance of John’s, Mary knew him through John, yet she was the one who insisted on inviting him, because he’d given them such a big engagement present, out of the blue and helped them find their flat.   
Arnold Salter. Why was he so keen--Molly worked with him at the morgue. He should ask her.

“Molly Hooper!” he shouted.”Molly Hooper, where are you?”

He realized the fire had gone out and she wasn’t sitting in her chair--he’d moved John’s chair to the other side of the room and purchased an ox-blood red leather chair that complimented her hair and her eyes and she hadn’t been sitting in it for hours because it was two in the morning and she’d gone to bed. He vaguely remembered that--her coming back from her shopping trip with Meena, being knackered she said? Was it that? She’d read a book--no that was two days ago and she’d finished the book and they’d talked about it at breakfast.   
He walked up to her bedroom and went inside where she slept alone on her too small bed. With both hands, he shook her awake.

“Molly Hooper!”

She didn’t open her eyes and swatted wildly at him. He caught her flailing wrists.

“No. Sleep now.” Molly mumbled.

“Wake up!”

“Is the building on fire?” she asked.

“Of course not.”

“Then I’m not getting up.”

“What do you know about Arnold Salter?”

“Go away.” 

“Arnold Salter.” He let go of her hands. 

Molly rubbed the back of her eye. “He’s creepy. Always hanging about, saying things that are on the edge of suggestive, but can’t get him caught out. He works in personnel or something and he’s a gossip. He asked me if I was bisexual yesterday--said he heard a rumor.”

“Cover story for Janine. And for the record, I put out that you only fancy women now.”

“She doesn’t work with me. Why would you bother?”

“Irrelevant. Finish your story.”

“Anyway, now only Arnold Salter types are hitting on me, since normal men respect my ‘orientation.’ Thanks for that.”

“I assumed attractive women would be interested in you as well.”

“That’s not helpful, either, unfortunately.” She clicked on the lamp beside her bed. He noticed she’d replaced her headboard with something more suitable--a black, wrought iron, Victorian-style headboard, but much, much sturdier than one from the period would be. He imagined her threading handcuffs through the bars to restrain him and lost his train of thought. 

“Sherlock-what are you doing, you’re going distant again.”

“He was at John and Mary’s wedding, their small wedding.”

“Salter?”

“Yes, of course Salter. Do try to keep up Molly.”

“You were muttering to yourself for about five minutes. I was about to break my rules and examine you again.”

“Sorry.” He looked down, abashed. “I mean it as well, that was rude.”

“No more rude than the rest of this conversation.”

“Right.” He continued on, more gently. “Do you know why Salter gave John and Mary such an extravagant engagement present?”

“I can’t imagine him giving them an engagement present at all.” She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. “He forgot John’s name once when we were talking. He called him Paul.”

“It doesn’t make any sense--Mary insisted he be invited.” Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and she sighed.

“That doesn’t track either. I don’t think she can stand him. She came to the lab once with John, when you were gone. When Salter talked, she rolled her eyes. What was the present?”

“Cash. He brought a date that didn’t look like someone who’d be interested in him. She was older, sophisticated.”

“I talked to her, she said she worked as a barrister, and that she adored Mary. I assumed she’d been the invite and Salter was her plus one.”

“Mary is hiding something. I’ve suspected for weeks. That’s why I had tea with Janine to find out more about how she and Mary met. They went to the same gym. Mary’s flat had three gyms closer to her   
than the one where she met Janine and it was not on the way to work. That, and they met in a barre class.”

“Ballet? That doesn’t sound like Mary.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“A barre class--why did you never have sex with Janine?”

“Molly Hooper, bite your tongue.” He said quietly. She smiled against his chest. “Perhaps Mary cosied up to Janine for the same reason I did.”

“That’s monstrous. Poor Janine.”

“Maybe I should have given her the engagement ring after all. She seems to have earned some sort of compensation.”

“You just want to give that thing away.”

“I’ve got marriage on my mind.”

“When we were at the cottage, Mary frightened me. She didn’t do anything specific or make any threats, but I could tell she was capable of violence. I didn’t want her near you.”

“I’m also capable of violence.”

“Not toward her. She’s John’s wife and you love them both. It would be the perfect cover to hurt you.”

He was about to chastise her for using the word love, but her point was valid. 

“Mary wanted to get at Magnusson--why?”

“Why were you after him?”

“He’s blackmailing a client. Was.”

“Then maybe he blackmailed Mary, or she’s working with someone being blackmailed. You’d be the one to find it--in the morning. Now I need sleep. Do you want to stay in here?”

“I can’t think when I’m in bed with you.” That wasn’t entirely true--he couldn’t think of anything but her. 

“Maybe that’s good. Sleep knits the raveled sleeve of care and all of that.”

“Balm of hurt minds.” He smiled, even though she couldn’t see his face. He couldn’t help himself.

“Yes. You need sleep, it will help you sort this tomorrow.” She pulled away from him so he could make his decision to stay or go.  
He unbuttoned his shirt and watched her watching his fingers. She licked her thin lips and shut the light off. Molly lied down and turned over, giving him privacy to take off the rest of his clothes. He got in after her, holding her back tightly to his stomach.

“I don’t know if this is correct, us sharing a bed, but I’ve missed it. You haven’t popped in since I got my room situated,” Molly said.

“I’ve been trying to work and I hardly sleep when I’m working.”

“You hardly eat, either. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’ve delegated that to you.”

“That’s--not helpful. Also, you’re a grown man, and you only listen to me about forty percent of the time.”

“Better rate than John.”

He wanted to ask her if he could press his ear to her chest to listen to the beat of her heart, but before the words could take shape, he fell asleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Arnold Salter did not seem to do any work at Bart’s at all. Sherlock had him followed surreptitiously as he flitted about gossiping and making women uncomfortable.  
Upon searching his office, he did find something of value--a newspaper with every other paragraph marked in red pen. It was a technique used to set up a meeting place, and Sherlock deciphered the code in moments.  
The bronze dog statue in Battersea Park was to be the site of the meeting, at four in the afternoon that day.  
That left him just enough time to bring Molly Hooper her lunch.  
She sat at the microscope, intent on the object she examined. He walked up to her and lightly tapped her shoulder. She seemed tense until she looked up and saw him. The smile on her face, the sheer relief at the sight of him, made him feel something.  
“What have you brought?” She dismounted from her tall chair. He always thought the way her feet dangled off the stool was funny, in a way that didn’t make him laugh so much as made his heart hurt.  
“Just jam and honey sandwiches, and a thermos of coffee. The stuff they have here is dreadful. Oh and a tangerine--you’re looking peaky and it’s good to have the Vitamin C.”  
That was true--she looked tired. Probably because he’d woken her up in the middle of the night shouting about Salter.  
“Peaky? I’ll have to refresh my blush.”  
“No, you need sleep. Hopefully I won’t have need to bother you tonight.”  
“Sometimes you bothering me is nice,” she said.  
He leaned in close, right next to her ear. “Your blush seems to have refreshed itself.”  
She took the bag from his hands and her smile faltered. “See you at home.”  
They’d discussed him bringing her lunch that morning, when she’d woken up in his arms. She’d been polite enough to ignore the fact that he slept naked. He’d explained, whilst wrapped in her sheet, that it would be good cover. She’d said that him being nice to her would always seem suspect. The same look--the fallen smile--had crossed her face then, too.  
He wanted to make that look go away, then chastised himself for the thought.  
***  
No one saw him in his hoodie and sweats, the sunglasses and hat. It was shocking how much sunglasses and a hat concealed--they changed the whole character of his face. He placed listening devices around the dog statue, put in his headphones, so he could listen as well as look, and went jogging.  
It was the perfect day for a walk in the park--blue skies and the leaves were just starting to turn. He rather liked the exercise after feeling weak for so long.  
The woman who met Salter was familiar. It took him a second to place her, but only a second.  
Althea, Mycroft’s assistant. She didn’t look up from her phone at all.  
“You’re looking gorgeous, like always,” Salter refolded his newspaper.  
Her expression didn’t change, but Sherlock could tell even at a distance she didn’t like Salter.  
“Has R. brought the asset home?” Althea asked.  
“She’s working on it. The package is safe even if the location isn’t ideal.”  
“Thank you. That’s been supported by the data we’ve collected. I left a bag of popcorn on the bench. You should have a taste.”  
Althea walked away, still texting. Salter grabbed the bag of popcorn off the bench and walked in the opposite direction. When they were gone, Sherlock collected his surveillance equipment and left.  
The strange little meeting had confirmed his suspicions. Mary was in league with Mycroft, the asset was probably him, and she would probably ease up on her opposition to Molly. His euphoria at catching out the truth plummeted quickly when he thought of John.  
***  
Sherlock sat inside John and Mary’s flat in the dark. He’d had time to go back to Baker street to hide his evidence and change his clothes. As he waited for Mary to come home, he thought of how peaceful he used to feel sitting in that chair, how happy he’d been to be part of a family. Now he knew the family was built upon lies. It shouldn’t make him feel something because he’d always suspected all families were false constructs anyway, but it did.  
All around him he looked at the decorations of their home, the photographs. Mary had chosen everything to convey the type of person she wanted John to believe her to be. Since this was a very long con, he suspected she had selected items that genuinely made her comfortable. Lies were always more compelling when mixed with the truth. His gaze traveled around the room, landing on one picture in particular. He stood and walked over, then picked up the silver frame. Three women sitting on a couch, the middle one holding a chubby, blonde baby. The middle woman had familiar eyes, and a birthmark on her left cheek. Hope sprung up at the deduction that followed, if hope was something which he could be susceptible to.  
Mary came in carrying two bags of groceries just as he set the photograph down.She switched on the light and saw him. Panic flashed across her face.  
“Sherlock--what are you--” She smiled brightly, one of her gorgeous smiles--but Sherlock could see the ice beneath. Clearly, she would have rather dealt with a burglar.  
“You were placed in John’s office by my brother to surveille him, I’m assuming to find out if he knew I survived that jump.”  
She set the groceries down on the counter. Her whole demeanor changed. Her smile collapsed and the way she positioned the kitchen island between them, it was clear to him that she was planning to defend herself should it come to violence.  
Mary looked up at him.  
“Does John know?”  
“No, and I have no intention of telling him, but you have to come clean to me. Now.”  
She backed away. “I was only supposed to watch him. But I liked him, and his heart was broken when you left. Mycroft thought you were dead, when you were captured by that gang in Ukraine. Remember?”  
“They tortured me for a week. I remember.”  
“Mycroft couldn’t reach you through any channels and a body was found--I asked if I could be free to be with John.”  
“And my brother agreed? I find that unlikely.”  
“I’m passing the age where I can do the kind of work I was doing before. I wanted to retire.”  
“No, Mary. He never would have let you slip through his fingers. This was a happy accident. An opportunity.”  
“I’m not like you. I couldn’t have agreed to share my life with him--”  
“What about Janine?”  
“You’re one to talk.”  
“At least I never made her buy a lilac-colored, taffeta dress. Did you kill Magnusson?”  
“No, I’m not that type. I just pass on information. At least you know you were right about the terrorist plot, if that’s any consolation.”  
“It’s not. Are you pregnant with John’s child, or was that another lie?”  
“Rosie is John’s. I’d offer to submit to a DNA test, but I’m sure you’ve already got one lined up.”  
“Shame your mother won’t get to have a relationship with her grandchild. At least she got to go to your wedding. Arnold Salter’s date?”  
“How?” Mary flinched.  
“The photo of you as a baby. One of the women in the picture had a birthmark on her cheek. I noticed Salter’s date had a scar in the same spot. That, and despite the subtle work you’ve had done, there is no way to change your lovely eyes, which are like hers. This tells me you love John, you wanted the most important person in your life to be at your wedding. It was real to you.”  
“It is real and I do love him. A lot of couples meet at work.”  
“Don’t,” he held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t be lovely and charming, and don’t tell me you can’t help yourself.”  
“You’re angry.”  
“Of course I am. I made a vow to protect you, which now seems counter to protecting John.”  
“I won’t hurt John. If Mycroft knew that, he would pull me out. You mustn’t tell him I’ve been compromised.”  
“John is all that matters now. I won’t give up your cover, but if it comes down to it, you must save him instead of me.”  
“That’s not even a choice.”  
He began to walk away, but she caught the sleeve of his coat.  
“Wait. I want you to know something--I like Molly, it wasn’t about that. But you know she isn’t like us--she can’t protect herself from the people who could come after you. She can’t even protect herself from you.”  
“She doesn’t need protection from me.”  
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”  
Hearing that from Mary caused a slight pang in chest.  
“You would be safer living with us,” Mary said.  
“You are not someone whose opinion I trust. Good night Mrs. Watson.”  
“It’s not opinion, it’s fact. Be careful, Mr. Holmes.” She looked at him a long moment, and the expression on her face made him want to run until he found Molly and made sure she was safe.  
He slipped out the way he came.


	16. Chapter 16

Molly chopped the onions very fine--it was one of the things she could do easily and well and it gave her a great deal of pleasure to get them so small.  
She hoped Sherlock liked tomato sauce, but more than that she just wanted him to come home. Normally he met her at the tube station outside of Bart’s. He seemed delighted to explain to her all the ways she was easy to track and how she should begin varying her routine to throw off potential attackers. She’d begun to do just that, but he always seemed to find her, no matter what time she left or which exit she used, or which mode of transportation. In the months since they’d been living together, it had become a kind of game.  
Molly had felt triumphant for fooling him that night--she’d gotten a ride from Sadie, one of the interns and then had the girl drop her off at a different tube station. No Sherlock. It was only when she came home to an empty flat that she began to worry.  
He’d responded to her text immediately with one of their codes, Pandolins, which meant he was working. It was too soon to worry, but she still worried.  
She dumped the onions into the bottom of the pan with the garlic and fresh mushrooms she already diced.  
Molly was just about to open the tinned tomatoes while the onions browned, when she heard someone bounding up the stairs.  
“Molly Hooper!” Sherlock shouted.  
She walked into the hallway to see him flustered and sweating.  
“What is it, what’s the matter?”  
“What are those smells, like onions cooking?”  
“Those would be onions cooking. I’m making a sauce. Are you okay?”  
He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a hug right there on the stairwell. She sank into the embrace. With his arms still around her, he took off his leather gloves, then gently cupped the back of her neck. His hand was cold and she shivered. Her reaction broke the spell and he let her go.  
“People could have seen,” he said, as though he hadn’t been the one to initiate the hug.  
“What people?”  
“Go inside.”  
Sherlock put his hand on her back and gently pushed her into the flat. After he locked the door behind him, he held her again, not even bothering to take off his jacket. She pressed her cheek against his chest and sighed.  
“What is all this?” she asked.  
“I thought you were hurt, or that you’d vanished off the face of the earth.”  
“I’m still here. I need to add the tomatoes, or the other vegetables will burn, but I’ll come back and cuddle you.”  
He let her go, suddenly aloof. “No need. I don’t cuddle. Go finish your work, Molly Hooper. After dinner, we’ll go somewhere for a drink.”  
“A drink? Is this to do with the pangolin?”  
“Completely.”  
She smiled.  
“Can’t picture you with a pint. Is there a pub around here that serves absinthe and poisoned sugar cubes?”  
He pouted, then shooed her off imperiously. “Your onions, Molly Hooper.”  
***  
Sherlock hadn’t wanted to tell Molly in the flat, not when anyone could be watching or listening. He thought of all the times John and Mary had been to visit--she could have left a bug anywhere. They would have to leave the devices in place to keep up her cover, so that negated any sensitive talk in the flat.  
Molly respected his silence over dinner, only asking him if he liked her spaghetti sauce. It was far better than the ghastly Nigella recipe she’d tried with the brown sugar burnt onto the tomatoes and he told her that much. Her look of relief made him feel something.  
After they ate, she made him help with the washing up. This was their evening ritual, and he would inevitably complain to her about it, even though drying the dishes and putting them away while they chatted had become one of his favorite parts of the day. Their chat that night skated above things of importance, which he found oddly relaxing.  
Counterintuitively (at least to other people), he took her to a noisy pub where everyone was watching football to tell her about Mary. When they went up to the crowded bar to order, he whispered in her ear.  
“Mary isn’t real. She belongs to Mycroft.”  
The look on her face told Sherlock that Molly desperately needed the pint he ordered for her. They worked their way from the crowd to a dark corner. She sat down in the wooden booth. Street light filtering in through the stained glass windows made her hair look red. It was funny how different surroundings could alter her looks, but somehow she’d begun to shine brightly in all of them. His eyes always went to her first.  
“What about John?” Molly asked earnestly.  
“She loves him. He’s safe, as long as he doesn’t find out.”  
“How could she, though? So many lies, and then to get pregnant? Poor John.”  
“Don’t think on him right now--think of everything you’ve ever told her. You said she frightened you at the house, tell me about that. You were alone with her on her hen night. Tell me everything you remember.”  
As her pint became empty, she recounted everything she remembered about Mary. It was like going through a pocket of trash in hopes of finding a coin--and there was nothing of value in the exchange, except that Molly was alive and fine when he’d convinced himself several times over that he’d come home to find her dead.  
“How can I be near her knowing this?” Molly twisted a napkin.  
“Find a way. You can lie when it counts, and play off the rest to mutual dislike. Pretend you’re in love with John. It shouldn’t be too hard, since you’ve kissed.”  
Molly ripped the napkin in half.  
“What? He told you about that?”  
“Naturally--he still thinks I’m sentimental about that sort of thing, and assumed since we were living together a confession was in order. Utterly conventional, but that’s John. At any rate, you’ve kissed John, and Moriarty--anyone else in my circle I should know about? Did you give Greg a go? Maybe Mike?”  
“You remembered his name--and no, Greg is married. Mike is my boss--no.” She grabbed Sherlock’s untouched pint and drank quite a lot of it in one gulp.  
“No one at work, not after the mess with Jim the IT guy.” He couldn’t resist making his voice higher when he said, Jim the IT guy.  
“Why are we talking about this at all?” Molly asked.  
Why indeed. He couldn’t give her any kind of answer because he wasn’t sure himself.  
“Let’s go. Judging by your body weight, you’ll regret drinking the rest of that so soon after the other.”  
“Was that a compliment?” She cocked her eyebrow at him.  
“You’re stretching, Molly Hooper.”  
He stood up and held his hand out for her to take. She struggled back into her coat, then took hold of his hand. As they walked out, he made sure his body was between her and any of the jostling passerby. When they stepped out onto the street, he did not let go of her hand. In fact, he held it all the way home. Neither of them commented upon this development.  
Back at home, he finally let go of her to lock the door behind them.  
Sherlock let Molly take over the bathroom right away. After her shower, she came out wearing a deep red, silk robe--she’d finally thrown out her threadbare, pink dressing gown and Mina had given her the new robe for Molly’s birthday. Which, he suddenly remembered, was yesterday. She and Mina had their night out without him the Saturday before, but on her actual birthday, she hadn't celebrated at all.  
Molly sat in her chair, gathering the robe to cover her legs. He wished she wouldn’t. There was some kind of nightgown underneath it the same color and he wanted to have a better look.  
“Happy Birthday, Molly--belatedly.”  
She laughed. “I honestly forgot.”  
“I’ll bring you a present. John and I are going to Brighton for a case tomorrow.”  
“Taffy?” She laughed again, like she was stoned. He chalked it up to exhaustion and the strange burst-bubble feeling after learning of disaster.  
“Do you want to talk?” she asked, concern replacing her giddiness.  
“I need quiet now.”  
“I’ll go upstairs then.” She uncrossed her legs, about to stand up and leave him.  
“No.” He extended his hand to her. “I need quiet with you.”


	17. Chapter 17

John cleared his throat, adjusted in the driver’s seat and tried again to ask Sherlock how he was doing.  
“That was brilliant, that thing with the Chinese throwing star. Never would have guessed myself.”  
Sherlock didn’t answer, he only stared out the window. His deductions hadn’t seemed so brilliant that day, not at least to himself. He’d been distracted by the things he couldn’t tell John and the the things he wanted to tell Molly. They drove through a quaint area sure to have places with taffy or bric a brac and he remembered his promise to Molly.  
“Could we stop at the shops in the main strip over there. I promised Molly Hooper a birthday present.”  
John crumpled his chin and his eyebrows shot up in amusement.  
“You have never bought me a birthday present in all the years I was your roommate.”  
“I’ll pick one up for you as well. Just stop.”  
John slowed the car down and began looking for a parking space.  
“That’s not the point. How are things going with Molly, by the way?”  
“I’ve been sober for four months and two days.” He decided not to interpret that question further.  
John parallel parked in front of a line of shops. They got out of the car and surveyed the options.  
Cookery shop with a yellow and white striped sign--she had enough of that.  
Lingerie store in black calligraphy--not appropriate and certainly not appropriate in front of John.  
Jewelry store.  
Yes.  
He fingered the engagement ring in his pocket and wondered if they would re-size it for him. Certainly, but not now. Start fresh with something less confusing.  
“We’ll go to the last one on the street.” Sherlock began walking.  
John followed.  
“Jewelry? Really?” John asked.  
“Women like it, apparently. I heard it in a song, once,” Sherlock said as he opened up the shop door and held it wide for John.  
“A few songs, I’d imagine.” John walked in before him.  
Inside the little store was tastefully decorated with beige walls and mirrored cases. As soon as he scanned the contents of those cases, he knew exactly which piece to buy.  
Sherlock went to the counter and pointed out the bauble he wanted to the clerk. At his elbow, John shook his head.  
“You don’t think she’ll be insulted by something like that?”  
Sherlock ignored him.  
“Could I have this wrapped, please?” he asked with a too wide smile. Manners always made him feel like a fraud.  
“Oh, that’s mega-cute, isn’t it? You gettin’ it for your daughter?” the clerk asked in her Scottish accent. She had her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, but it was obvious she’d dyed it dark purple. He sized her up quickly--under 25, in a band on the weekends, which is what she considered her real job, was stealing a lot from the till at night in accordance with her anarchist ideals. He would have to make sure to give her exact change.  
“Maybe chocolates would be better,” John offered.  
“She’ll eat those in one go and resent me in the morning. This is good.” He looked away from John and at the clerk again.  
“I’m stopping for chocolate at that candy shop down the street, anyway,” John said.  
“I have cash.” Sherlock said to the clerk. “Do include a little card or something.”  
“We don’t really do that--I guess that’s more of a florist thing?” she said.  
“I’ll figure something out.”

***  
Molly stretched, making her stiff muscles pop like bubble wrap.  
She worked her shift, commiserating with the dead. On the way home she’d gotten off at a random point during her stop, walked a few blocks, then took a cab the rest of the way to Baker Street.  
Molly glanced around her, looking for anyone who could be watching her and found herself alone on the street. She unlocked the door.  
Martha stood in the hallway sweeping. She looked a bit over-dressed for housework--she had on a bright purple dress and a coordinated necklace.  
Molly waved and Mrs. Hudson’s face lit up.  
Molly walked to her, swiping off her own knitted cap in the process and stuffing it into her pocket.  
“Is he home yet?” Molly asked.  
“He stopped in with John for a few moments, then after John was gone, he left again. He did give me some lovely chocolates on his way out.”  
“That’s odd,” Molly said  
“I thought so, too.”  
“Would you like to join me for dinner--I made too much stew--”  
“It smells gorgeous, but I have a date tonight.”  
“Have fun, then,” Molly smiled, waved goodbye and then made her way upstairs.  
She looked around the apartment room to room, even though he wasn’t going to be there. She checked her phone for his text, but there hadn’t been any since the last time she checked.  
“Home now. When can I expect you?” she texted.  
“Late. Don’t wait for me.”  
Molly sighed and shrugged out of her coat. She hung it by the door before going into the kitchen. She ladled herself a bowl of stew and set it on the table.  
Before moving in with him, she’d eaten alone every night and it hadn’t bothered her. Just then, staring at the steam rising from her food, she felt unbearably lonely.  
He hadn’t wanted her to join him and John on their case, even after she'd asked.  
They’d been in his bed--he’d held her so close, and left a crown of kisses on her hairline.  
“You’re needed in the morgue,” he’d said.  
It felt like something had changed, that maybe he was ready to tell her he wanted her without the nudge of a debilitating fever. It was something she shouldn’t want--she’d promised herself and him that she wouldn’t take advantage of him--but he was better, wasn’t he?  
Molly went to the shelf to look for a book to read, to take her mind off of her thoughts. As she walked by her chair, she noticed a small gift wrapped in gold paper laid on the cushion. Beneath it was an envelope marked with Sherlock’s initials.  
Perhaps that’s what he meant by not waiting.  
She opened the envelope and took out the note he’d written.

Molly Hooper,  
You’ve survived another year. It seemed appropriate to commemorate this with a compensatory gift. John doesn’t think you’ll like it, so the receipt is also included in this envelope.  
-W.S.S.H

Molly tore off the paper and opened the box. Inside was nestled a gold charm of a stylized mouse holding its tail. She lifted the chain out and gazed at it for a moment. 

Molly the Mouse. 

She put the chain around her neck and looked at herself in the mirror. The necklace looked like something she’d owned her whole life. It was beautiful, but aside from liking the piece, she didn’t know how to feel about the gift. From another person she would think it was a message that he knew she considered him a part of her closest family. From Sherlock, it could mean anything. Molly went back to the table and picked up her phone.

“Tell John I like my gift,” she texted. “When can I expect you?”

“He’ll be displeased to know I was right. Sentiments and kind regards are supposed to be his area.”

“Aren’t you always right, though? He should be well aware.”

“Yes. Are you angling for more gifts?”

“I wouldn’t say no to anything you’d give me.”

Molly already sent the text before she noticed it could be construed as somewhat sexual. He didn’t text back She stared at her silent phone while she slowly ate her food. 

“What time will you be home?” she texted.

He didn’t respond. 

She went to the bathroom and took her shower. Since he wasn’t home, she did the lengthy conditioning treatment for her hair that she’d been putting off. With special care, she shaved her legs instead of skipping it entirely or scraping up her skin in haste while he complained on the other side of the bathroom door.  
When she came out in her robe, more than an hour had passed. Molly checked her phone. 

He hadn’t responded. 

That wasn’t like him to drop off without sending her some kind of code. 

She called John, just to reassure herself. He picked up after several rings.

“Molly, hello?” he sounded groggy. She could hear Mary’s indistinct voice in the background.

“Sorry to bother you. Is Sherlock with you?”

“No--he’s not home?”

“No.”

“I dropped him off at a quarter to four, I don’t know where he would be. Hold on, I’m getting a text. It’s him. He says, ‘Tell her I’m fine and mind her own business’--sorry. Apparently he’s fine.”

“Thank you.”

“Mary says hello, by the way.”

“Tell her she married the last good man on earth.”

“I most certainly won’t, but thank you.”

Molly didn’t know what to do. He wanted her to mind her own business, but he made himself her business.

She went into his bedroom and checked his normal hiding places. There she found a wealth of gently admonishing notes, but no drugs. The slides she’d gotten him for Christmas were hidden in the top drawer of his dresser, along with the card and wrapping paper--almost like it meant something to him. In the same spot she found a photograph of her from John’s wedding. He wasn’t in the picture--just her, laughing, with Tom cut out. Molly set the photo back and closed the drawer.  
She went back into the living room, and paced the floor in her bare feet until she heard him coming up the steps. Molly bounded into the hallway, her robe swinging around her. They made eye contact as he rounded the top banister, and there was something almost guilty in his expression before the look vanished, replaced by a cold mask.

“Where were you?” Molly asked.

He gave her a withering glance as he unlooped his scarf and went into the apartment. She followed him. He took off his coat and hung it beside hers. With each indifferent movement, she felt smaller and more foolish. 

“Answer me.”

“You’re not my girlfriend, Molly Hooper, though you’ve assumed some of those duties and no doubt would like to assume some more.” He started to walk by her.  
Gently but firmly, she grabbed his wrist as he passed her. He let her take hold of him, even though he was stronger and could have pushed her away. 

“Let me see your arms.”

“You’re also not my doctor. I transitioned my care ages ago, at your insistence.”

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Boundaries. We need them. You said it yourself.”

“Turn out your pockets right now.”

Shamefaced, he did as she asked. In his pocket there was loose change and a ring box. She opened it, expecting to find a packet of heroin and instead found a diamond ring, different than the other one he’d been carrying. This one had a diamond situated in between two pink stones of equal size.

“I didn’t relapse. I went shopping.”

“What’s this?”

“It looks like something you’d like, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah--but you got me a birthday present.”

“This isn’t a birthday present. It was a whim. I don’t know why I should have bought it.” He shook free of her grasp and went past her, into the living room, leaving Molly with the ring box in her hand. She stood there dumbfounded for a moment while he took off his coat and hung it by the door. 

Was he really...?

Molly went through the door into the living room to see him flopped in his chair, long legs splayed apart.

“You need to explain yourself to me right now. Please.” She held out the box. “Is it some kind of trick?”

“It was a moment of weakness.” He looked at the ceiling. “Things with John and I are never going to be the same again. Mary’s seen to that. I wanted something to anchor you here, to me, but after I bought it I realized that was ludicrous. Entropy is the state of the universe and as with all things we are going to fall apart no matter how much platinum I use to weigh down your finger. Better to ready myself now.”

“You wanted to marry me?”

“It wasn’t a concrete plan, just an impulse. You can keep the ring. I owe you that much.”

“But you’ve never even kissed me--how do you know you like me?”

He scoffed. “I know I like you. How you kiss doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“Fine.” He stood up. “Can I kiss you? Even though it’s largely beside the point.”

“Not until you explain to me what prompted all of this.”

“I love you--isn’t that what prompts these things? And as I said, I’ve effectively lost John because of Mary’s lies and I thought if I didn’t act, I would also lose you. But then on the way home I began to doubt the sagacity of such a plan because of the uncertainty of life. What if you want children? I don’t want that. They baffle me and I prefer to be the only baffling member of a household. You could say no as well and even though I’m loads better than stupid Tom, I’m frankly a nightmare, Molly Hooper. You’d be wise to turn me down.”

“So you didn’t want to give me the chance.”

“Clearly,” he said, softly.

She put her hands on her hips and blew out a puff of air. “Kiss me. Let’s see if this is worth the argument.”

He smiled down at her, before he bent and kissed her lips. It was sweet and soft. He touched her necklace with the lightest fingers.

“Did you like me?” he asked.

“I did. Did you like me?”

He cupped her face and kissed her again. The kiss ended and he rested his forehead on hers. She tried to catch her breath.

“Should I put that ring on then?” she asked.

“Please.”

(the end.)

The Story continues in 9 Holidays


End file.
